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SCOTT,  FORESMAN  AND  COMPANY 

EDUCATIONAL  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  CHICAGO 


EDITEB  BY 

LINDSAY  TODD  DAMON,  A.B. 

Professor  of  English   Literature  and  Rhetoric  in 
Brown   University 


Ubc  %a\\c  Bnolisb  Classics 

BURNS 

BT 

THOMAS     CARLYLE 


EDITED  FOR  SCHOOL  USE 
BY 

GEORGE  B.  AITON 

STATE  INSPECTOR  OF  HIGH  SCHOOLS,  MINNESOTA 


CHICAGO  NEW  YORK 

SCOTT,  FORESMAN  AND   COMPANl' 


Copyright  1896 
By  SCOTT,  FORESMAN  AND  COMPAKY 


ROBERT      O.       UAW      COMPANY, 
PRINTERS  AND    BINDERS,   CHICAGO. 


CONTENTS 

"  FASB 

Preface     .,,......  7 

Introduction          ,...,..  9 

Map 10 

Carlyle 11 

Biirns 23 

Comments  on  the  Essay           .        ,        .        .  30 

Bibliography         .......  39 

Poems  of  Burns  Named  in  the  Essay     .        .  40 

Text 43 

Notes     .             ....       r        ...  131 

Glossary ,       .       .  143 


PREFACE 

This  edition  of  Carlyle's  Essay  on  Burns  has 
been  prepared  for  the  use  of  students  in  secondary 
Bchools.  It  j)resents  the  text  as  the  author  left 
it,  and  such  introduction  and  notes  as  are  thought 
Mkely  to  assist  the  student. 

"With  this  purpose  in  mind,  the  sketches  of 
arlyle  and  Burns  have  been  restricted  to  the  parts 
of  their  lives  j)ertinent  to  the  essay  under  consider- 
ation. It  is  impossible  within  the  brief  limits  of 
an  introduction  to  give  a  balanced  account  of  two 
remarkable  men  and  an  equally  remarkable  essay. 
For  an  adequate  life  of  the  essayist  the  reader  is 
referred  to  Fronde's  Carlyle  and  to  Carlyle's  own 
Eeminiseences  and  Letters.  The  most  satisfactory 
?iew  of  Burns  may  be  had  from  Dr.  Chambers's 
Life  and  Worhs  of  Rohert  Burns  (4  vols.  Long- 
man's), but  Blackie's  Burns,  in  the  Great  "Writers 
Series,  will  answer.  It  is  sufficient  for  our  purpose 
to  sketch  an  outline  of  Carlyle's  life,  indicating 
how  by  study  he  became  a  thinker,  what  he  stood 
for  and  why  he  was  the  particular  man  of  letters 

to  write  an  essay  on  Burns  that  would  repay  study. 
7 


8  PREFACE 

To  tliis  must  he  added  tlie  pertinent  facts  of 
Burns's  life,  in  order  that  Carlyle's  references  may 
be  understood.  "We  shall  also  desire  some  account 
of  the  place  this  essay  fills  in  literature. 

A  short  list  of  reference  books  is  given  to  em- 
phasize the  importance  of  having  and  using  a 
serviceable  school  library.  A  list  of  those  of 
Burns's  poems  which  Carlyle  mentions  has  been 
arranged  in  chronological  order.  The  notes  are 
intended  merely  to  clear  up  certain  allusions  or  to 
call  attention  to  important  thought.  It  has  not 
been  considered  advisable  to  give  explanations  of 
what  may  be  inferred  from  the  text,  or  to  embar- 
rass the  student  with  remarks  upon  proper  names 
with  which  he  is  already  familiar.  A  like  desire 
to  disencumber  the  notes  has  led  to  the  insertion, 
in  the  glossary,  of  such  Lowland  words  as  are 
feund  in  Carlyle's  numerous  but  always  judicious 

quotations. 

G.  B.  A. 

Minneapolis,  August,  1898. 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 

CAEL  TLE 

The  Carlyles  were  a  rougli -riding,  hard-striking 
border  family  about  the  Firth  of  Sol  way,  who  shared 
the  vicissitudes  of  the  Camerouians  and  finally  sub- 
sided into  industrious,  Bible-reading  mechanics  and 
farmers.  They  were  honest  and  temperate,  but 
men  not  to  be  trifled  with.  James  Carlyle, 
the  father  of  Thomas,  had  the  family  character- 
istics. He  was  a  skilful  stone-mason,  having  in- 
deed built  his  own  house,  the  best  in  Ecclefechan. 
He  was  a  man  of  integi'ity  and  desjaatch,  strong 
and  active  both  in  body  and  in  mind.  Somewhat 
austere  to  strangers,  he  was  Aviell  spoken  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  but  had  a  tongue  that 
could  rasp  and  a  temper  which  he  bequeathed  to 
his  son,  in  whom  it  was  said  that  on  occasion  it 
would  "boil  like  a  geyser."  Carlyle's  mother,  a 
]\Iargaret  Aitken,  appears  to  have  been  a  woman 
of  force  and  intelligence,  well  read  for  her  day  and 
independent  in  her  thinking,  but  somewhat  milder 
in  disposition  than  the  Carlyle  type.  Father  and 
mother,  they  were  an  exemplary  couple.  Thomas, 
born  December  4,  1795,  the  oldest  of  their  nine 
children,  has  characterized  his  mother  as,  "A 
woman  of  to  me  the  fairest  descent,  that  of  the 
11 


12  INTRODUCTION 

pious,  the  just  and  the  wise. "  Of  his  father,  he 
says:  "More  remarkable  man  than  my  father  I 
have  never  met  in  my  journey  through  life ;  ster- 
ling sincerity  in  thought,  word,  and  deed,  most 
quiet  but  capable  of  blazing  into  whirlwinds  when 
needful,  and  such  a  flash  of  just  insight  and  brief 
natural  eloquence  and  emphasis,  true  to  every 
feature  of  it,  as  I  have  never  known  in  any  other. 
Humour  of  a  most  gi'im  Scandinavian  type  he 
occasionally  had ;  wit  rarely  or  never — too  serious 
for  wit.  My  excellent  mother,  with  perhaps  the 
deeper  piety  in  most  senses,  had  also  the  most 
sport.  No  man  of  my  day,  or  hardly  any  man, 
can  have  had  better  parents."  We  are  interested 
in  this  account  of  Carlyle's  ancestry  because  ability 
does  not  spring  from  the  dull-witted  in  a  single 
generation.  Education  of  the  right  sort  will 
improve  any  mind,  but  a  boy  without  good  blood  in 
him  cannot  make  much  of  a  man. 

The  Carlyles  were  prosperous  wliile  their  chil- 
dren were  growing  up.  Their  housekeeping, 
though  simple,  was  scrupulously  neat.  The  chil- 
dren ran  barefoot  in  summer  and  had  an  abundance 
of  the  simple  but  exceedingly  nutritious  food  of 
the  Scottish  peasantry,  consisting  chiefly  of  oat- 
meal porridge,  scones,  milk,  cheese  and  potatoes. 
Carlyle's  mother  began  to  teach  him  so  early  that 
he  could  not  remember  the  time  when  he  was 
unable  to  read.  At  seven  he  was  sent  to  the  vil- 
kigo  school  and  pronounced  ready  for  Latin.     At 


CARLYLE  13 

ten  he  was  fondly  destined  for  the  Presbyterian 
ministry,  and  was  sent  to  the  gi-ammar  school  at 
Annan,  a  few  miles  down  the  valley,  whei'e  he 
learned  to  overcome  homesickness,  bullies,  French, 
Latin,  mathematics  and  the  Greek  alphabet — not 
a  bad  beginning  for  one  who  was  to  become  versed 
in  literatm-e. 

In  the  autumn  of  1809,  though  he  was  not  quite 
fourteen,  it  was  decided,  despite  the  shaking  of  wise 
heads  in  the  village,  to  send  Thomas  Carlyle  to 
the  University  of  Edinburgh,  Carlyle's  parents 
deserve  credit  for  their  self-sacrifice,  for  Thomas 
was  now  old  enough  to  labor,  and  his  help  would 
have  been  very  acceptable ;  but  parental  pride  came 
to  the  rescue,  and  Thomas,  though  he  never 
became  a  minister,  fully  justified  all  expectations. 
Up  Annandale  and  over  the  fells,  twenty  miles  a 
day,  every  foot  of  the  way  historic  ground — and  Car- 
lyle just  the  kind  of  boy  to  enjoy  it — ^he  trudged, 
to  Edinburgh.  According  to  the  custom  pre- 
vailing among  the  sons  of  Avorking  people,  Carlyle 
boarded  himself  while  at  the  university,  depending 
mainly  on  provisions  sent  from  home  by  the  carrier, 
the  weekly  arrival  of  whose  cart  was  a  social  feature 
of  the  countryside.  As  a  student,  he  worked  hard 
and  read  omnivorously,  gaining  recognition, 
strangely  enough,  in  the  department  of  mathematics 
only.  He  himself  intimates  that  the  library  was 
the  best  part  of  the  university.  "Xay,  from  the 
chaos  of  that  library,  I  succeeded  in  fishing  up 


14  INTRODUCTION 

more  books  than  had  been  known  to  the  keeper 
thereof." 

Having  in  due  time  brought  his  university  course 
to  a  conclusion,  Carlyle  registered  as  a  non-resident 
divinity  student.  He  left  the  old  library  and  his 
scanty  quarters  for  home,  as,  indeed,  he  had  not 
failed  to  do  at  the  end  of  each  college  year.  For- 
tunately the  mathematical  instructorship  in  the 
Annan  school  fell  vacant,  and  Carlyle,  now  nine- 
teen years  old,  received  the  appointment  at  a  salary 
of  about  £60  a  year,  quite  sufficient  to  render  him 
independent  and  to  put  him  in  the  way  of  saving 
something  for  a  future  course,  still  supposed  to  be 
theology.  The  young  instructor  is  said  to  have 
done  his  work  faithfully,  but  to  have  disliked 
teaching.  He  shunned  society;  shut  himself  up 
with  his  books,  and  spent  his  vacations  with  his 
parents,  who  had  now  removed  with  the  entire 
family  to  the  farm  of  Mainhill,  a  few  miles  up  the 
road  Carlyle  used  to  take  for  the  university.  Two 
years  passed  in  this  way,  when  university  influ- 
ence procured  him  a  better  position  as  master  of  a 
new  cliissical  and  mathematical  school  at  the  sea- 
coast  town  of  Kirkcaldy,  some  twenty  miles  to  the 
north  of  Edinburgh.  Here  he  had  the  friendship 
and  the  companionship  of  Edwai'd  Irving,  also  an 
Annandale  boy,  a  graduate  of  the  University  of 
Edinborgh  and  a  rural  divinity  student,  but  now 
master  of  a  competing  school  in  Khkcaldy.  Car- 
lyle, doubtless  through  the  influence  of  his  new 


CARLYLE  15 

friend,  with  whom  he  walked  and  talked  summer 
nights  on  the  Kirkcaldy  sands,  and  with  whom  he 
spent  vacation  times  in  the  Highlands,  now  began 
to  enjoy  society  more  and  to  hate  "schoolmas- 
tering"  worse.  More  than  this,  the  ministry, 
never  attractive  to  him,  now  seemed  intolerable, 
and  though  he  had  hitherto  complied  with  the 
non-resident  requirement  of  a  sermon  a  year, 
delivered  at  the  university,  and  had  but  two  years 
to  wait  for  ordination,  he  applied  for  his  father's 
consent,  reluctantly  but  silently  granted,  and  in 
1818  resigned  at  Kirkcaldy,  cancelled  his  registra- 
tion as  a  divinity  student  by  suffering  it  to  lapse, 
and  with  £90,  the  savings  of  four  years,  began  the 
study  of  law. 

Irving,  who  resigned  his  Kirkcaldy  position  at 
the  same  time,  soon  had  a  call  to  Glasgow  as  an 
assistant  of  the  renowned  Dr.  Chalmers,  but  as  for 
Carlyle  he  "was  poor,  unpopular,  unknown,  .  .  . 
proud,  shy,  at  once  so  insignificant  looking,  and 
so  grim  and  sorrowful."  He  settled  in  rooms  at 
Edinburgh  again,  and  "once  more  the  Ecclefechan 
carrier  brought  up  the  weekly  or  monthly  supplies 
of  oatmeal  cakes  and  butter."  Carlyle,  in  these 
years,  is  sincerely  to  be  pitied.  If  it  had  been 
possible  for  some  publisher  to  recognize  his  talent 
and  to  put  him  at  work,  even  in  a  humble  way,  he 
might  have  been  saved  years  of  poignant  distress, 
and  might  have  escaped  the  severe  attacks  of 
mental  as  well  as  bodily  dyspepsia,  fi'om  which  he 


16  INTRODUCTION 

suffered  all  his  life.  We  cannot  say.  Young 
people  of  mettle  always  struggle  before  they  settle 
into  the  harness  of  life,  and  it  may  be  that  this 
mental  unrest  and  hovering  over  the  brink  of  de- 
spair were  necessary  before  his  mind  could  break  its 
bonds  and  utter  its  message  to  the  world.  At  all 
events,  he  secured  a  private  pupil  now  and  again 
at  two  guineas  a  month;  he  found  some  employ- 
ment as  a  writer  of  articles  for  Brewster''s  Ency- 
clopcedia,  and,  all  in  all,  with  the  aid  from  home, 
got  on  without  using  his  £90.  AVith  the  solace  of 
summers  at  Mainhill  and  an  occasional  stay  and  a 
tramp  with  Irving  at  Glasgow,  he  fancied  at  times 
he  might  like  the  law,  but  even  in  his  most  cheer- 
ful letters  one  can  see  that  he  was  fiercely  at  war 
with  life  and  faint  at  heart  for  fear  of  being 
ultimately  worsted  in  the  conflict.  Finally,  the 
outlook  brightened.  Some  recognition  came  to 
him  by  way  of  his  encyclopaedia  articles ;  he  got  on 
a  footing  which  justified  correspondence  with 
publishers;  law  was  abandoned.  Brewster  gave 
him  a  check  one  day  for  fifteen  guineas.  He  was 
able  to  send  his  father  a  pair  of  spectacles  and  his 
mother  a  golden  guinea.  Heartened  by  this  up- 
ward fortune,  he  could  ask  himself,  "What  art  thou 
afraid  of?  Wherefore  like  a  coward  dost  thou  for- 
ever pip  and  whimper  and  go  cowering  and  trem- 
bling? .  .  .  Ever  from  that  time  the  temper  of  my 
misery  was  changed ;  not  fear  or  whining  sorrow  was 
it,  but  indignation  and  grim,  fire-eyed  defiance." 


CARLYLE  17 

At  twenty-six,  then,  tlie  victory  was  practically 
won.  Carlyle  was  to  be  a  man  of  letters.  He  waa 
well  versed  in  French  literature;  in  German  he 
was  doiibtless  the  best  read  man  of  Great  Britain. 
Another  year,  and  Irving,  who  had  gone  from 
Glasgow  to  London,  put  him  in  the  way  of  tutoring 
two  young  men  by  the  name  of  Buller,  whose  par- 
ents removed  to  Edinburgh  that  then-  sons  might 
attend  the  university.  This  arrangement  yielded 
£200  a  year.  Carlyle  had,  moreover,  all  the  liter- 
ary work  by  way  of  encyclopgedia  and  magazine 
articles  he  could  find  time  to  do,  and  thereafter, 
though  never  in  affluent  circumstances,  finaucial 
considerations  do  not  appear  to  have  given  him 
legitimate  cause  for  distress. 

Four  crowded  years  now  passed  rapidly.  Carlyle 
tutored,  translated  Legendi'e,  sent  his  mother  a 
new  bonnet,  helped  his  father  with  money  for  the 
farm,  assisted  his  brother  John  at  the  medical 
school,  walked  the  sands  of  the  Firth,  climbed 
Arthur's  Seat,  visited  Miss  "Welsh,  of  whom  more 
hereafter,  wi'ote  a  life  of  Schiller  for  the  London 
Magazine^  parted  company  with  the  Bullers  most 
amicably,  and  returned  to  Mainhill.  Here  he 
translated  WiUielm  3Ieister,  and  arranged  for  its 
publication  at  a  compensation  of  £180  for  the  first 
edition  and  £250  for  the  second.  Correspondence 
with  Goethe  followed.  Carlyle  then  visited  London. 
He  saw  Irving,  called  on  various  publishers,  and 
met  the  literary  celebrities  of  the  day.     His  rever- 


18  INTRODUCTION 

ence  for  literary  people  received  a  shock,  he  revised 
his  estimates,  and  effaced  several  lights  from  his 
literary  firmament  or  reduced  them  to  stars  of  lesser 
magnitude.  He  terrified  the  simple-hearted  folk 
at  Mainhill  hy  venturing  across  the  Channel,  even 
to  Paris,  but  returning  safe,  rented  the  small  farm 
of  Hoddam  Hill,  enjoyed  its  quiet,  lost  some  money 
in  its  management,  and  finally  "flitted"  with  his 
father  and  the  whole  family  to  a  larger  farm  and 
house  called  Scotsbrig,  near  Ecclefechan.  Then 
followed  four  years  of  intense  and  now  well-directed 
effort,  for  the  details  of  which  the  student  is 
referred  to  Fronde's  admirable  Life  of  Carlyle. 

One  cannot  keep  up  courage  in  an  intellectual 
life  without  friends.  They  need  not  be  many,  but 
they  must  be  staunch.  Irving  was  a  firm  fi'iend 
to  Carlyle,  and  he  Avas  the  means  of  introducing 
him  to  another.  Before  taking  a  school  at  Kirk- 
caldy, Irving  had  taught  at  Haddington,  the  birth- 
place of  John  Knox,  less  than  twenty  miles  east  of 
Edinburgh.  Here  he  became  much  interested  in 
Jane  Baillie  Welsh,  a  young  girl  of  beautiful  per- 
son and  unusual  intellectual  quickness,  whose 
studies  he  continued  to  direct  until  he  went  to 
Glasgow.  During  the  summer  of  1821,  returning 
to  Edinburgh  for  a  visit,  as  was  his  wont,  he  took 
Carlyle  from  his  supposed  law  studies,  and  together 
they  walked  out  to  Haddington,  taking  the  short 
cuts  and  byways,  talking  as  they  went.  Here  Car- 
lyle met  Miss  Welsl),  who  united  with  Irving  in 


CARLYLE  19 

admiration  of  his  vigorous  understanding  and  racy 
speech,  while  Carlyle  no  less  admired  her  vivacity 
and  literary  appreciation.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, there  was  little  difficulty  in  arranging  that 
he  should  direct  her  reading.  A  fast  friendship 
ensued.  Carlyle  had  no  hope  of  aspiring  to  one  of 
her  high  social  position,  and  she  had  no  thought  of 
marrying  a  penniless  peasant's  son  in  a  single  lodg- 
ing, but  friends  they  were,  and  during  his  years  of 
gi'eatest  struggle,  she  was  his  literary  confidante, 
never  doubting  his  ultimate  success.  Society  at 
her  feet  she  cared  not  a  rap  for ;  the  young  man  of 
genius,  of  flawless  private  life,  struggling  out  of 
obscurity,  she  did  care  for ;  his  future  became  the 
sole  object  of  her  solicitude ;  she  entered  into  his 
plans  with  energy  and  hopefulness,  and  even  visited 
the  Carl3de  home  at  Mainhill. 

Finally,  after  many  misgivings  and  prudentiaV 
hesitatings,  they  decided  to  face  the  world  together. 
Miss  Welsh  was  the  daughter  of  an  eminent  sur- 
geon, who  at  his  death  had  left  his  property  (the 
house  at  Haddington,  some  investments  and  a 
farm  near  Dumfries)  to  his  only  daughter  for  the 
support  of  herself  and  her  mother;  now,  on  her 
marriage  to  Carlyle,  with  a  mixture  of  character- 
istic pride  and  generosity,  she  turned  all  the  prop- 
erty over  to  her  mother.  Carlyle  and  Miss  Welsh 
were  married  in  October,  1826,  and  began  house- 
keeping the  same  day  in  a  small  dwelling  at  Comely 
Banii,  in  the  subui'bs  of  Edinbm-gh.     The  home 


20  INTRODUCTION 

was  comfortably  furnished  from  Haddington,  Mrs. 
Carlyle  had  a  faculty  for  entertaining  little  parties, 
her  social  standing  was  unquestioned,  and  the 
literary  people  of  Edinburgh  were  pleased  to  be  her 
guests.  Among  these  visitors  at  Comely  Bank 
came  one  who,  after  Irving  and  Jane  Welsh,  must 
be  counted  Carlyle 's  closest  friend,  no  less  a  person 
than  the  brilliant  Francis  Jeffrey,  editor  of  the 
Edinburgh  Revieio.  The  Edinburgh  Revieiu  was 
started  in  1802  by  a  coterie  of  brilliant  young  men 
who  were  dissatisfied  with  current  criticism  as  ema- 
nating from  those  who  had  books  to  sell.  Jeffrey 
was  the  first  editor-in-chief.  Contributors  were 
paid  liberally,  and  from  the  first  the  new  quarterly 
took  high  standing  for  wit  and  ability.  It  was  an 
honor  to  be  a  contributor,  and  quite  the  proper 
thing  to  be  a  subscriber.  Under  the  influence  of 
this  new  friendship  that  never  failed,  Carlyle  set 
fire  to  a  novel  he  could  not  have  completed,  and 
became  a  contributor  to  this,  the  most  influential 
quarterly  of  the  day.  Carlyle's  first  article  was 
creditable;  his  second,  on  the  State  of  German 
Literature,  attracted  the  attention  of  the  best 
minds  in  Europe. 

Carlyle,  however,  was  dissatisfied  with  city  life. 
He  wanted  undisturbed  quiet  for  his  hours  of  writ- 
ing, and  he  pined  for  the  solitude  of  the  moors  for 
his  hours  of  thinking.  Mrs.  Carlyle  was  a  deli- 
cate, refined  woman,  accustomed  to  the  town 
and   to   intelligent  society,   yet   she    yielded   out 


CARLYLE  21 

of  regard  to  her  husband  and  his  future.  The 
way  seemed  to  open  naturally.  Mrs.  Welsh, 
Jane's  mother,  had  not  been  successful  in  obtain- 
ing a  thrifty  tenant  for  Craigenputtock,  the  Dum- 
frieshire  farm,  so  Alexander  Carlyle,  a  brother 
who  had  not  succeeded  particularly  well  with 
Carlyle's  experiment  at  Hoddam  Hill,  was  placed 
in  charge  of  Craigenputtock.  The  farm-house 
was  enlarged  and  put  in  repair ;  six  teams  drew  the 
household  stnff  from  Edinburgh.  Mrs.  Carlyle 
turned  her  back  on  the  comforts  she  had  been 
accustomed  to,  and  for  seven  years  the  Carlyles 
took  up  their  home  at  the  farmstead  of  Craigenput- 
tock, on  the  bleak  hills  seventeen  miles  from  Dum- 
fries and  the  postoffice.  Here  Jeffrey  came  to  see 
them,  here  our  American  Emerson  came  for  the 
night's  visit  later  recorded  in  English  Traits,  and 
here  Carlyle,  not  yet  perfectly  happy,  made  the 
following  entry  in  his  diary:  "Finished  a  paper  on 
Burns,  September  16,  1828,  at  this  Devil's  Den, 
Craigenputtock." 

"We  have  followed  Carlyle  thus  minutely  from 
Ecclefechan  to  Craigenputtock  to  show  that  his 
final  success — mastery  is  the  better  word — was 
achieved  by  working  for  it.  Carlyle  inherited  a 
capacious,  constructive  mind  and  power  of  expres- 
sion, but  if  reading  and  studying  and  digging  at 
books,  with  prolonged  and  agonizing  thinking, 
ever  brought  a  mind  to  its  full  development,  it  did 
in  him..     And,  though  many  other  pieces  of  work 


22  INTRODUCTION 

were  done  at  Craigenjiuttock,  we  do  not  at  this 
time  need  the  details,  however  interesting,  of  Car- 
lyle's  later  life  there,  nor,  indeed,  anything  but  the 
barest  record  of  the  life  that  followed.  After  writ- 
ing Sartor  Eesartus,  he  removed  in  1834:  to  Lon- 
don to  secure  library  facilities.  Mrs.  Carlyle  resumed 
her  tea-parties,  which  became  one  of  the  features 
of  literary  London,  and  guarded  her  husband's 
study  for  thirty-two  years  while  he  scolded  and 
fumed  and  wrote  his  French  Revolution^  his 
Heroes  and  Hero  Worship,  Fast  and  Fresent,  Life 
mid  Letters  of  Oliver  Crom?ceU,  Life  of  Sterling, 
and  Life  of  Frederick  tlie  Great,  his  writings  ex- 
tending in  all  to  thirty  volumes. 

In  1866  he  was  elected  Lord  Rector  of  Edinburgh 
University,  whither  he  journeyed  and  where,  after 
delivering  an  addi'ess  of  noble  power,  he  left  the 
hall  amid  the  tumultuous  applause  of  the  body  of 
students,  no  doubt  the  most  gratifying  and  fit 
recognition  he  had  ever  received.  But  before  he 
could  rejoin  his  wife  in  London,  that  high-minded 
and  gifted  woman,  in  the  midst  of  her  gladness 
for  his  now  honor,  had  passed  away.  Carlyle  lived 
another  fifteen  years  to  mourn  lier  loss,  but  his 
spirit  was  broken,  his  pen  was  no  longer  in  service. 
In  1881,  he  ended  a  life,  stern,  impetnous,  irri- 
table, but,  "in  the  weightier  matters  of  the  law, 
without  speck  or  flaw.  From  his  earliest  years,  in 
the  home  at  Ecclefechan,  at  school,  at  college,  we 
866   invariably  the  same  innocence  of  heart   and 


BURNS  23 

nprightness  and  integrity  of  action.  As  a  child, 
as  a  boy,  as  a  man,  he  had  been  true  in  word,  and 
honest  and  just  in  deed."  By  his  own  request, 
made  with  true  Scottish  loyalty,  his  remains  were 
not  deposited  in  Westminster  Abbey,  but  in  the 
churchyard  of  Ecclefechan.  Perhaps  no  man  has 
exercised  a  greater  influence  on  the  thought  of  this 
century. 

BURNS 

It  is  to  be  wished  that  the  testimony  to  Carlyle's 
private  character  could  be  given  to  Burns 's  as  well. 
A  recent  critic  says  that  Burns  is  good  enough  as 
he  is,  but,  unfortunately,  it  is  not  so,  for  in  the 
poet's  unrestrained  hours,  even  of  his  later  years, 
he  committed  acts  which  to  this  day  cause  his 
admirers  to  hang  their  heads  and  to  wish  that  he 
had  possessed  some  strong,  unselfish  friend  to  hold 
him  to  the  ways  of  his  forefathers. 

Like  Carlyle,  Burns  was  well  born,  none  better. 
His  father  and  his  mother  were  Lowland  peas- 
ants, hardworking,  frugal,  and  in  straitened  cir- 
cumstances, but  with  an  indigenous  culture  far 
above  the  vulgarity  of  life,  a  culture  which  one 
comes  upon  throughout  Anglo- Saxondom,  and 
which,  under  favorable  circumstances,  has  reached 
its  highest  development  in  the  hills  of  New  Eng- 
land. Eobert  Burns  was  born  January  25,  1759, 
in  a  straw -thatched  cottage,  a  half  hour's  walk 
out  of  Ayr,  to  a  father  and  a  mother  belonging  to 


24  INTRODUCTION 

that  better  peasant  element  whicli  on  botli  sides  of 
the  Atlantic  has  forced  the  world  to  hold  the  term, 
"common  people,"  in  respect.  His  father  was  a 
gardener,  tilling  a  few  acres  of  his  own  bnt  also 
working  for  wages.  In  the  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night  Bm-ns  gives  a  picture  of  his  father  with  "his 
spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes,"  and  of  his 
mother,  "wi'  her  needles  and  her  shears."  Family 
circumstances  were  such  that  Robert,  a  strong  boy, 
large  of  his  age,  was  needed  in  the  small  tasks  of 
tillage,  but  in  one  way  he  was  fortunate.  His 
mother  had  an  extraordinary  store  of  folk-lore 
songs  and  ballads,  and  his  father  made  an  effort  to 
surround  his  children  with  good  reading  and  to 
entertain  them  with  instructive  conversation 
Schooling,  moreover,  was  not  neglected  altogether. 
The  lad  was  started  at  school  when  five  years  of 
age,  and  had  an  occasional  term  of  prized  instruc- 
tion until  he  was  a  youth  grown. 

When  Burns  was  seven  years  old,  his  father 
removed  to  the  farm  of  Mt.  Oliphant.  At  fifteen, 
Robert  was  the  principal  breadwinner  of  the  family ; 
in  1773,  he  composed  his  first  song.  Handsome 
Nell^va.  honor  of  the  village  blacksmith's  daughter. 
In  1777  the  family  removed  to  Lochlea,  an  unprof- 
itable farm  in  the  parish  of  Tarbolton.  In  1778 
Burns  was  fortunate  enough  to  secure  a  summer 
term  of  schooling  at  Kirkoswald,  where  it  is  said  he 
ate  his  meals  with  Fergusson's  poems  in  one  hand 
and  his  spoon  in  the  other.      Retiu'ning  to  the 


BURNS  25 

farm,  he  composed  Poor  Mailie^s  Elegy ^  Winter^ 
and  other  early  pieces,  under  an  awakened  ambi- 
tion to  become  a  poet  of  the  people,  or,  as  he  loved 
to  put  it,  a  Scottish  bard.  Then  in  casting  about 
for  some  means  of  bettering  his  own  circumstances 
and  of  helping  the  family.  Burns  worked  for  some 
months  in  a  kind  of  partnership  at  the  flaxdi'esser's 
trade  in  Irvine;  but,  during  a  New  Year's  cai'ousal, 
the  shop  took  fire  and  burned  to  the  ground. 
Burns  returned  to  Lochlea  without  a  penny  and 
much  the  worse  in  morals.  Three  years  later,  in 
1784,  his  father  died,  and  Burns,  with  his  brother 
Gilbert,  took  the  family  to  their  fourth  home,  the 
farm  of  Mossgiel,  in  Mauchline. 

His  best  work,  indeed,  most  of  his  good  work, 
was  done  here.  It  will  be  interesting  to  note  that  the 
body  of  the  poems  mentioned  by  Carlyle  (pp.  67-78) 
were  written  during  the  two  or  three  short  years  at 
Mossgiel,  before  Burns  had  much  idea  of  his  own 
value.  Of  Burns  at  Mossgiel,  we  have  an  interest- 
ing account.  He  was  now  twenty -six  years  old,  and 
labored  on  the  farm  with  his  brother,  carrying  a 
book  about  in  his  pocket  during  the  day,  reading  as 
he  rested  against  the  plough,  or,  as  the  mood  was 
on  him,  thinking  out  his  theme.  At  night  he 
climbed  to  his  attic  room,  where  he  had  contrived 
a  rude  table,  and  committed  his  thoughts  to  paper 
before  he  went  to  rest  His  subjects  afford  variety 
enough,  and  happily  none  are  from  books.  Some 
old  tune,  or  some  border  ballad  running  in  his 


26  INTRODUCTION 

mind,  some  church  fracas,  the  death  of  an  old 
neighbor,  or  even  the  loss  of  his  pet  sheep,  brought 
forth  a  poem.  He  wrote  ballads,  epistles, 
epitaphs,  satires,  dedications.  He  attacked  the 
clergy  and  praised  the  devil,  but  never  belittled 
religion.  He  -wrote  a  ])oem,  it  has  been  cleverly 
said,  to  each  lass  in  the  parish,  and,  finally,  in 
ecstasy,  wrote  a  poem  to  them  collectively.  He 
wi'ote  of  winter,  spring,  and  summer,  of  rivers, 
braes,  and  uplands.  Dreams,  regret,  and  despond- 
ency called  forth  expression.  A  mouse,  a  daisy,  a 
suet  pudding,  a  favorite  mare,  a  calf,  the  tooth- 
ache, a  stormy  night,  and  even  a  louse,  are  made 
the  subjects  of  poems  which  must  be  read  to  be 
appreciated.  They  are  a  revelation,  and  justify 
Carlyle's  dictum  that  genius  can  never  have  far  to 
seek  for  a  subject. 

Burns 's  poems  were  composed  for  a  local  audi- 
ence, often  for  a  single  eye,  or,  at  most,  for  a  locai 
paper.  Whatever  hope  he  may  have  had  of  future 
distinction,  he  took  no  step  to  secure  outside  recog- 
nition, and,  were  the  truth  known,  he  was  only  too 
proud  of  the  rip-roaring,  thigh-slapping  applause 
of  the  numerous  convivial  gatherings  in  which  he 
was  easily  first. 

Evidently  his  heart  was  not  in  farming.  Numer- 
ous amatory  experiences  which  mar  this  as  well  as 
other  periods  of  his  life,  and  constantly  increasing 
indebtedness,  involved  him  in  embarrassments,  and 
led  to  his  casting  about  for  means  to  leave  the 


BURNS  27 

country.  After  some  thouglit  and  not  a  little 
encouragement  from  acquaintances,  Burns  decided 
to  raise  money  by  publishing  a  small  volume  of  his 
poems  at  Kilmarnock,  This  was  before  enterprise 
had  concentrated  so  largely  in  the  cities,  and,  to 
his  surprise  as  well  as  relief,  the  edition  sold  so 
well  as  to  clear  off  his  obligations  and  enable  him 
to  arrange  for  his  departm^e  to  the  plantations  of 
Jamaica.  He  had,  in  fact,  sent  his  box  to  Green- 
ock, at  that  time  the  sailing  port  of  Glasgow,  and 
was  himself  on  the  way  thither  when  a  letter  from 
Dr.  Blacklock  of  Edinburgh  came  into  his  hands, 
expressing  the  liigh  favor  Avith  which  his  Kilmar- 
nock volume  had  been  received.  Burns  at  once 
changed  his  mind.  He  resolved  to  go  to  Edin- 
burgh to  seek  an  appointment  in  the  excise,  and  to 
canvass  the  desirability  of  a  new  edition  of  his 
poems. 

His  presence  in  Edinburgh  created  a  furore.  The 
gentlemen  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt  subscribed  in 
advance  for  a  hundi'ed  copies  of  his  poems,  and 
the  newly-discovered  ploughman  poet  was  the  lion 
of  the  day.  For  the  time  Bmuis  felt  rich ;  he  had  been 
lionized  by  the  society  of  the  capital  city  of  Scot- 
land, and  he  liad  money  in  his  j^ocket.  He  now 
made  a  long-desired  tour  of  the  border  between 
England  and  Scotland,  so  rich  in  traditions  of 
minstrelsy.  Returning  to  Mossgiel,  he  again  took 
a  trip,  tliis  time  into  the  Highlands.  A  consider- 
able sum  of  money,  which  came  in  from  the  sale  of 


28  INTEODUCTION 

his  Edinburgh  edition,  he  generously  shared  with 
his  brother  and  the  rest  of  the  family.  In  1788,  he 
obtained  the  desired  post  in  the  excise,  formally 
married  Jean  Armour,  by  whom  he  had  already 
had  two  children  under  an  irregular  but  morally 
binding  form  of  marriage,  and  rented  EUisland, 
near  Dumfries.  But  Burns  was  spoiled.  His  farm 
ran  behind  under  hired  help,  he  wasted  time  among 
discreditable  companions,  and  had  it  not  been  for 
the  £60  derived  annually  fi'om  his  exciseship,  his 
family  would  have  been  in  need.  To  3Iary  {}i 
Heaven,  Auld  Lang  Syne,  and  Tarn  0'' Shanter 
were  composed  at  EUisland,  but,  on  the  whole, 
Burns  never  recovered  fi'om  the  glimpses  he 
had  of  "high  life"  in  Edinburgh.  In  1790,  he 
removed  with  his  family  to  Dumfries,  living  hence- 
forth on  his  income  as  an  officer  and  some  small 
return  from  his  poems.  At  Dumfries,  he  fell  into 
disrepute,  we  cannot  say  undeservedly,  his  self- 
respect  faded  away,  and  he  was  but  the  shadow  of 
what  he  might  have  been  when,  in  1796,  he  died. 
Robert  Burns  was  a  sad  bundle  of  contradictions. 
Education  and  independence  he  sacrificed  freely  to 
keep  father  and  mother  above  want — Carlyle  himself 
had  no  deeper  respect  for  the  piety  and  upright- 
ness of  his  parents — yet  Burns  rejected  their  most 
serious  admonitions.  No  poet  before  or  since  has 
surpassed  Burns  in  seeing  the  true  dignity  of  pro- 
ductive labor;  yet  work  irked  him,  and  he  allowed 
himself  in  his  letters  to  speak  contemptuously  of 


BURNS  29 

miry  furrows  and  offensive  barnyard  surroundings. 
Kone  saw  more  keenly  the  injustice  of  rank  aud 
the  emptiness  of  title;  yet  be  permitted  lack  of 
social  distinction  to  embitter  his  existence.  A  man 
could  hardly  have  been  more  desirous  for  sympathy 
and  respect;  certainly  no  one  ever  threw  away 
opportunity  with  a  more  prodigal  hand. 

The  lives  of  Burns  and  Carlyle  afford  perfect 
contrast.  Carlyle's  parents  seem  to  have  set  him 
apart  for  study  from  his  earliest  childhood. 
Burns "s  parents  did  what  they  could,  but  depended 
upon  the  poet's  labor  beyond  the  period  when  he 
ought  to  have  had  a  home  and  a  family  of  his  own. 
Carlyle's  education  was  as  thorough  as  Scotland 
could  offer;  the  muse  found  Burns  literally  at  the 
tail  of  a  plough.  Carlyle  was  cautious  and  thrifty; 
Burns  was  reckless  and  prodigal.  In  their  methods 
of  work  there  is  the  same  difference.  Carlyle 
wasted  no  moments;  he  blocked  out  his  subject, 
and  sat  down  to  it  as  methodically  as  ever  Koman 
laid  siege  to  a  city.  Burns  assumed  no  responsi- 
bility, cared  not  a  straw  how  his  subject  might  come, 
but  when  a  thought  took  shape  in  his  mind  wrote 
it  off.  Give  Carlyle  a  subject,  a  library,  his  meals 
and  seclusion,  and  he  would  heat  and  forge  and 
weld  until  he  had  his  thought  in  appropriate  form 
for  presentation.  Let  Burns  alone,  make  no  effort 
to  direct  him,  let  him  move  among  men  and 
among  the  fields  until  something  casually  stirred 
him,  and  he  would  sink  into  the  proper  mood, — and 


30  INTRODUCTION 

then  a  poem.  Each  had  the  proper  training  for 
his  own  kind  of  composition,  and  each  in  his  own 
sphere  is  among  the  few.  Carlyle,  however,  is 
constructive;  Burns  is  creative.  Carlyle's  essay  is 
a  search  for  value;  in  Burns 's  poems  may  be  found 
the  treasure. 

COMMENTS  ON  THE  ESSAY 

To  derive  full  benefit  from  Carlyle's  essay  on 
Burns,  it  should  be  read  repeatedly.  The  first 
reading  should  be  off -hand  and  fi-ee,  without  note 
or  explanation.  It  would  be  well  to  copy  the  fash- 
ion of  Lowell,  who  was  fond  of  reading  alone 
under  some  large  willows  near  his  home,  for  the 
serious  thoughtfulness  and  quiet  uplift  that  are  the 
true  reader's  guests  steal  in  only  Avhen  they  are  sure 
of  their  host  to  themselves.  This  first  time  one 
should  read  simply  because  he  is  interested.  Then, 
for  chiss  purposes,  the  essay  should  be  read  with 
dictionary  and  cyclopgedia  of  names  at  hand. 
AVords  must  be  weighed,  references  looked  up,  and 
allusions  made  clear.  While  one  should  cultivate 
a  rangy  method  of  getting  through  a  book,  a 
reader  who  makes  any  pretension  to  exact  informa- 
tion owes  it  to  himself  to  do  a  given  amount  of 
close  verbal  reading  something  after  the  fashion  of 
translating  a  foreign  text. 

This  essay,  like  any  other,  may  also  be  regarded 
from  more  than  one  point  of  view,  which  it  were 
well,  perhaps,  to  distinguish  cai'efully. 


COMMENTS  ON  THE  ESSAY  31 

a.    As  AX  ILLUSTRATIOIS"  OF  CaRLYLE'S    STYLE. 

Carlyle's  writings  are  difficult  to  classify.  Heroes 
and  Hero  Worship^  Cromwell,  Frederick  the  Great, 
and  the  French  Revolution  are  in  a  way  historical, 
yet  they  are  not  primarily  history.  Carlyle's  fame 
is  not  that  of  an  historian.  His  theory  of  history 
and  of  the  hero  at  the  helm  is  founded  on  a  dis- 
trust of  the  ability  of  the  common  people  to  work 
out  their  own  affairs.  His  discussions  of  questions 
of  the  day  in  Chartism  and  Past  and  Present, 
share  with  the  wi'itings  of  Euskin  the  delusion  that 
leaders  will  arise  among  the  well-to-do  who  shall 
devote  themselves  to  the  interests  of  the  masses, 
the  people  on  the  other  hand  becoming  gi-ateful 
and,  above  all,  obedient.  The  nineteenth  century 
idea  of  government  emanating  from  the  people  and 
exercised  by  themselves  in  their  own  interests,  he 
seems  unable  to  disassociate  from  violence,  subver- 
sion and  lawless  disobedience.  Historians  will  go 
to  Carlyle  for  lurid  descriptions  and  minute  details, 
but  not  for  authentic  statement,  nor  for  the  theory 
of  history.  Political  economists  and  teachers  of 
social  science  will  draw  on  Carlyle  for  scathing 
indictments  of  evil,  but  he  is  utterly  impracticable; 
his  ideas  of  political  reform  have  had  little  accept- 
ance. It  is  as  a  criticism  of  life,  as  an  appeal  to 
conscience  that  his  political  writings  have  so  pow- 
erfully influenced,  not  indeed  popular  legislation 
directly,  but  persona)  conduct.  They  rank  pri- 
marily as  contributions  to  literature,  and  Carlyle's 


33  INTRODUCTION 

standing  is  that  of  a  man  of  letters.  It  is  just  and 
proper,  therefore,  that  a  study  of  Carlyle  should 
be  based  on  his  MisceUanies  or  Essays^  which 
include  his  best  literary  work. 

First  to  attract  the  attention  of  a  student  is 
Carlyle 's  peculiar  choice  and  forceful  use  of  words. 
The  vocabulary  used  by  the  family  at  Ecclefechan, 
a  vocabulary  from  which  he  never  departed,  was  a 
remarkably  apt  one,  drawn  from  two  unsiu-passed 
sources,  the  dialect  of  the  Lowlands  and  King 
James's  Translation.  To  this  Carlyle  added,  by 
dint  of  prodigious  reading,  almost  the  entire 
vocabulary  known  to  metaphysics,  theology,  his- 
tory, biography,  and  polite  literature.  Familiarity 
with  German  and  French  and  the  ancient  lan- 
guages rendered  him  superior  to  lexicons  and  made 
liim  an  authority  unto  himself.  He  not  only  felt 
competent,  but  was  competent  to  use  any  word  that 
suited  his  meaning.  Fire-eyed,  perhaps  borrowed 
from  Shakspere,  is  a  favorite  word.  Many  unusual 
words,  such  as  j^oet-soul  and  ale-vapors,  he  probably 
coined  on  the  spot,  without  giving  the  origin  of 
the  words  a  second  thought,  provided  they  met  his 
needs.  One  has  only  to  choose  a  paragi'aph  at  ran- 
dom and  attempt  to  substitute  synonyms  to  become 
impressed  with  the  fitness  of  Carlyle 's  vocaibulary. 

In  some  other  respects  one  feels  that  he  might 
have  improved,  for  Carlyle  is  hard  to  understand. 
His  Burns  was  written  under  the  most  favorable 
circumstances,  and  is  considered  one  of  his  clearest 


COMMENTS  ON  THE  ESSAY  33 

and  best  pieces  of  'svTiting.  Yet  it  is  by  no  means 
easy  to  follow  his  thought.  He  pays  little  atten- 
tion to  the  reader.  The  thought  is  there;  if  the 
reader  cannot  get  it,  let  him  qualify.  Carlyle's 
allusions  are  frequent  and  pertinent  but  undis- 
criminating,  and  at  times  certainly  unduly  recon- 
dite. An  author  who  shreds  into  his  writings  bits 
of  fact  or  information  gathered  up  in  his  walks  and 
conversation,  or  more  probably  unearthed  from  old 
volumes  that  may  not  be  opened  again  for  genera- 
tions, if  ever,  is  not  likely  to  be  popular.  In  read- 
ing this  essay,  for  instance,  it  is  easy  to  trace  many 
phrases  and  words  to  their  source  in  border  history, 
in  the  Scriptures,  or  in  Shakspere,  but  the  aver- 
age reader  can  hardly  realize  how  full  every  line  is 
of  hidden  fire.  With  here  a  word  from  a  ballad, 
and  there  a  word  from  Lamentations,  called  up  by 
the  relationship  of  the  ballad  to  Burns 's  poem  or 
by  a  train  of  reflection  upon  the  contrasting  char- 
acters of  the  Scottish  bard  and  the  Hebrew 
prophet,  it  would  be  impossible  to  determine  what 
association  of  ideas  moulded  Carlyle's  phraseology, 
unless  one  were  to  pass  through  his  experiences. 
The  most  diligent  student,  even  by  giving  a  life- 
time to  the  study  of  Lowland  life,  Scottish  poetry 
and  Carlyle's  literary  antecedents,  would  be  unable 
to  read  out  of  this  essay  all  that  the  author  wrote 
into  it.  There  is  all  the  more  need,  therefore,  for 
a  careful  study  of  the  points  it  is  possible  to  clear 
up. 


34  INTRODUCTION 

An  attempt  to  bring  the  essay  as  a  whole,  or  by 
paragraphs,  or  even  sentence  by  sentence,  within 
tlie  rules  of  modern  composition  is  unavailing. 
It  would  not  be  easy  to  give  a  reason  for  the  occur- 
rence of  paragi'aphs  in  their  present  order ;  entire 
groups  of  paragraphs  might  be  shifted  to  another 
position;  it  is  difficult  to  bring  the  essay  within 
any  reasonable  kind  of  topical  analysis.  Yet  it 
would  be  more  difficult  to  suggest  an  arrange- 
ment of  greater  effectiveness.  One  might  as  well 
try  to  rearrange  the  stones  in  a  wall  as  to  rear- 
range Carlyle's  sentences.  In  matters  of  punctua- 
tion and  capitalization  and  sentence  structure, 
too,  Carlyle  must  be  taken  as  he  is„ 

Carlyle's  whole  life  was  a  protest  against  thinking 
as  other  people  pretend  to  think,  and  against  doing 
as  other  people  do.  To  be  sure,  he  had  bound- 
less sympathy  and  coveted  appreciation.  In  his 
correspondence  with  Goethe,  and  possibly  in  some 
of  his  letters  to  Emerson,  he  shows  a  desire  to 
propitiate,  to  be  pleasant;  but  ordinarily  he  makes 
no  effort  to  write  in  an  acceptable,  not  to  say 
pleasing,  manner.  If  Carlyle  did  not  care  to  please, 
he  did  care  to  be  believed.  Criticism  of  his  style, 
retort  for  his  sharp  sayings,  personal  attack,  any 
amount  of  vituperation,  might  fall  on  his  armored 
sides  and  he  would  lie  at  anchor  gi'im  and  silent; 
but  doubt  his  sincerity,  venture  to  question  his  colors 
and  he  would  train  his  guns  upon  you  instantly. 
Had  Carlyle  known  that  this  essay  would  some  day 


COMMENTS  ON  THE  ESSAY  35 

be  used  for  class  purposes,  his  only  concern  would 
have  been  to  have  students  find  and  accept  his 
thought. 

Carlyle  himself  says  that  composition  was  a 
slow  and  even  painful  task.  As  a  lad  he  had 
seen  his  industrious  father  choose  stones  and 
true  them  with  a  hammer,  and  lift  them  into 
place  and  level  them  with  smaller  pieces,  and 
imbed  them  all  in  mortar  to  build  up  an  honest 
wall.  So,  as  a  man,  Carlyle  chose  rugged  thoughts, 
shaped  and  fitted  them  and  laid  them  in  a  wealth 
nf  allusions  and  supporting  facts  to  build  up  an 
honest  essay;  and  he  has  succeeded.  We  may, 
indeed,  pick  out  a  bit  of  mortar  here  and  point  out 
a  want  of  harmony  in  the  granitic  colors  there,  but 
this  essay  is  still  a  fitting  monument  to  its  builder, 
a  simple,  enduring  piece  of  workmanship,  the  very 
materialization  of  his  own  rules  for  the  honest 
craftsman,  be  he  in  literature  or  any  other  honor- 
able walk  in  life.  "No  slop  work  ever  dropped 
from  his  pen.  He  never  wrote  down  a  word  which 
he  had  not  weighed,  nor  a  sentence  which  he  had 
not  assured  himself  contained  a  truth."  No  better 
exemplification  of  his  literary  method  can  be 
chosen  than  his  paper  on  Burns. 

b.    As  A  COXTRIBUTION  TO  THE  STUDY  OF  BURNS. 

It  was  no  doubt  the  author's  intention  to  say  a 
conclusive  word  about  Burns.  He  had  a  feeling 
that,  while  noise  enough  had  been  made  over 
Biu-ns,  the  popular  applause  was  indiscriminating 


36  INTRODUCTION 

and  not  based  upon  a  genuine  perception  of  merit. 
Carlyle  was  peculiarly  well  fitted  to  write  on  this 
Bubject.  Froude  says,  "It  is  one  of  the  very  best 
of  his  essays,  and  was  composed  with  an  evidently 
very  peculiar  interest,  because  the  outward  circum- 
stances of  Burns's  life,  his  origin,  his  early  sur- 
roundings, his  situation  as  a  man  of  genius  born  in 
a  farmhouse  not  many  miles  distant,  among  the 
same  people  and  the  same  associations  as  were  so 
familiar  to  himself,  could  not  fail  to  make  him 
think  often  of  himself  Avhile  he  was  wi'iting  about 
his  countryman."  Carlyle  s  estimate  has  been  very 
generally  accepted,  and  future  critics  can  hardly  re- 
verse his  judgment.  They  will  have  greater  length 
of  perspective,  but  this  advantage  will  be  offset  by 
want  of  sympathy.  They  cannot  be  a  part  of  what 
Burns  and  Carlyle  were,  for  the  land  of  Burns,  the 
land  of  Carlyle,  is  fast  becoming  a  part  of  the  out- 
side world.  Local  culture,  long  indigenous,  is 
merging  into  cosmopolitanism.  Stevenson  and 
Barrie  and  Watson  are  indeed  worthy  weavers  of  the 
Scottish  plaid,  but  they  are  not  Carlyle  and  Burns. 
If  the  essay  be  studied  for  the  light  it  throws  on 
Burns  and  for  a  criticism  of  his  poetry,  a  good  life 
of  Burns  should  be  read  first,  and  Burns's  more 
important  poems  should  be  made  familiar.  For 
a  farther  contribution  in  Carlyle's  best  vein,  the 
student  should  read  a  few  pages  of  Burns,  the 
Hero  as  a  Man  of  Letters,  in  Heroes  and  Hero 
Worship 


COMMENTS  ON  THE  ESSAY  37 

C.  As  A  CONTRIBUTION  TO  THE  THEORY  OF  LIT- 
ERATURE. Cai'lyle's  theory  of  literature,  his  enun- 
ciation of  the  rules  which  should  govern  literary 
utterance  and  in  accordance  with  which  judgment 
should  be  passed — that  is  to  say,  his  ideas  of  literary 
criticism — ai'e  entirely  subordinate  in  the  plan  of  the 
essay.  They  ai"e  given  briefly  in  a  few  paragraphs, 
only  to  Justify  the  reviewer's  dogmas  and  to  support 
his  critique  of  Burns 's  poetry  and  life.  AVhen  an 
author  considers  every  word  he  wi'ites  as  important, 
it  is  unlikely  that  he  knows  when  he  says  his  best 
things,  but  Carlyle's  theory  of  literature,  first 
clearly  enunciated  in  this  essay,  is  his  surest  claim 
to  fame.  Eeference  has  been  made  to  the  diffi- 
culty of  tracing  Carlyle's  allusions,  but  there  is  no 
difficulty  in  tracing  his  influence.  Once  on  the  alert, 
it  is  astonishingly  easy  to  note  the  indebtedness  of 
modern  criticism  to  him.  Of  American  writers 
we  may  mention  Emerson  and  Lowell  and  Whipple 
and  Stedman  as  freely  acknowledging  his  influence. 
In  England,  Matthew  Arnold  extended  and  applied 
the  ideas  of  Carlyle's  essay.  It  holds  a  fundamental 
piece  of  literary  criticism  which  has  ^^nderlain  and 
stimulated  the  literary  activity  of  the  Victorian  age. 
Poets,  novelists  and  critics  have  squared  their 
writings  or  sealed  their  verdicts,  consciously  or 
unconsciously,  in  accordance  with  the  message  sent 
by  that  lone  man  with  the  beetling  brow  down  from 
the  moors  of  Craigenputtock  to  the  Edinburgh 
Revieiu.     Carlyle's  ideas  of  what  literature  should 


38  INTRODUCTION 

bo  and,  consequently,  by  what  standard  it  should 
06  judged,  are  stated  so  clearly  that  it  would  be 
unfair  to  the  student  to  summarize  them  here 
instead  ot  permitting  him  to  gather  and  arrange 
them  for  himself. 

One  other  point  should  be  noticed,  for  it  marks 
the  beginning  of  better  things  in  literary  criticism. 
Carlyle  was  a  man  of  spotless  integi'ity.  His  life 
was  trying  to  his  friends,  but  he  laid  it  down  with- 
out a  blot.  He  hated  the  way  of  the  transgressor 
:vith  a  hatred  akin  to  savagery.  Yet  in  this  essay, 
overlooking  Burns 's  slips  and  wrong-doing,  ho 
throws  over  him  the  mantle  of  charity,  takes  him 
by  the  hand,  calls  him  countryman,  and  says  to  the 
world :  Behold,  here  is  a  Man,  his  works  do  speak 
for  him. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  39 

Even  with  judicious  notes  at  hand  not  a  little  work 
in  a  library  is  desirable.  For  tributes  to  Burns  the 
poems  of  "Whittier,  Lowell  and  Wordsworth  should  be 
put  under  contribution.  Encyclopaedia  articles  on 
Burns  and  Carlyle  should  be  consulted.  Frequent 
references  to  a  large  dictionary  and  the  Century  Cyclo- 
pcedia  of  Names  are  almost  indispensable.  For  the 
literary  conditions  of  the  times  of  Carlyle  and  Burns, 
consult  Welsh's  Development  of  English  Literature. 
The  recent  edition  of  Burns's  Poems,  by  Andrew  Lang, 
since  it  is  inexpensive  and  carefully  done,  is  probably 
the  most  appropriate  edition  for  a  school  library. 

The  following  additional  reference  books  are  care- 
fully selected  as  those  most  likely  to  repay  study. 

Carlyle 

Thomas  Carlyle,  Froude. 

Reminiscences,  Carlyle. 

Correspondence,  Carlyle-Emerson. 

Correspondence,  Carlyle-Goethe. 

Letters  and  Memorials,  Carlyle,  Jane  Welsli 

Critical  Miscellanies,  Morley. 

Literary  Essays,  Vol.  II.,  Lowell. 

Emerson  (Discourses  in  America),  Arnold. 

English  Traits,  Emerson. 

Thomas  Carlyle  (English  Men  of  Letters  Series), 

Nichol. 
Fresh  Fields,  Burroughs. 
Collected  Impressions,  Saintsbury. 


Burns 


Life  and  Works  of  Robert  Burns,  Chambers. 
The  Poems  and  Songs  of  Robert  Burns,  Lang. 
Life  of  Burns  (Great  Writers  Series),  Blackie. 
History  of  English  Literature,  Taine. 
Familiar  Studies  of  Men  and  Books,  Stevenson. 
letters  (Cameloo  Classics),  Burns. 
The  Study  of  Poetry  (Essays  in  Criticism),  Arnold. 
Heroes  and  Hero  Worship,  Carlyle. 
Miscella nies,  Emerson. 


1785 


40  INTRODUCTION 

POEMS    OF    BURNS    NAMED    IX    THE    ESSAY 

1783    Poor  Mailie's  Elegy. 

Epistle  to  "William  Siirpson. 

The  Holy  Fair. 

Halloween. 

To  a  Mouse. 

The  Jolly  Beggars.     A  Cantata. 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night. 

Address  to  the  Deil. 

Scotch  Drink. 

The  Auld  Farmer's  New  Year-Morning   Saluta- 
tion to  his  Auld  Mare,  Maggie. 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy. 

The  Brigs  of  Ayr. 
I  Farewell  to  the  Banks  of  Ayr. 
L  A  "Winter  Night. 

1787  Epistle  to  Mrs.  Scott  of  "Wauchope  House. 

1788  M'Pherson's  Farewell. 

'  Ode— Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Mrs.  Oswald   of 
Auchencruive. 

1789  \  The  Wounded  Hare. 

Willie  Brew'd  a  Peck  o'  Maut. 
To  Mary  in  Heaven. 

i  Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew  Henderson. 
(  Tam  O'Shanter :     A  Tale. 

i  Duncan  Gray. 
Open  the  Door  to  Me,  oh. 
Bruce's  Address  at  Bannockburn. 


1786  < 


CARLYLE'S   ESSAY  ON 
BURNS 


This  essay  first  appeared  as  a  leading-  article,  or  perhaps 
better,  as  a  literary  criticism,  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  for 
December,  1828,  under  the  following- heading': 
Art.  I.     The  Life  of  Robert  Burns. 
By  J.  G.  Lockhart,  LL.B.,  Edinburgh,  1833. 

Eleveji  years  later  Carlyle  collected  his  papers  from  the 
pag-es  of  several  periodicals,  and  republished  them.  He 
was  never  fond  of  long- titles  and  this  essay  he  named  with 
a  sing-le  luminous  word  Ruriis.  While  professedly  writing 
a  book  review  it  is  interesting  to  note  that  Carlyle  refers 
to  Lockhart  in  but  three  places ;  in  the  first  sentence  of  the 
second  paragraph,  in  the  fourth  paragraph,  and  in  the  two 
quotations  on  pages  99  and  110. 


In  the  modern  arrangements  of  society,  it  is  no 
uncommon  thing  that  a  man  of  genius  must,  like 
Butler,  "ask  for  bread  and  receive  a  stone;"  for, 
in  spite  of  our  grand  maxim  of  supply  and  demand, 

5  it  is  by  no  means  the  highest  excellence  that  men 
are  most  forward  to  recognize.  The  inventor  of  a 
spinning-jenny  is  pretty  sure  of  his  reward  in  his 
own  day ;  but  the  ^\Titer  of  a  true  poem,  like  the 
apostle  of  a  true  religion,  is  nearly  as  sure  of  the 

10  contrary.  We  do  not  know  whether  it  is  not  an 
aggravation  of  the  injustice,  that  there  is  generally 
a  posthumous  retribution.  Robert  Burns,  in  the 
course  of  Nature,  might  yet  have  been  living;  but 
his  short  life  was  spent  in  toil  and  penury ;  and  he 

15  died,  in  the  prime  of  his  manhood,  miserable  and 
neglected:  and  yet  already  a  brave  mausoleum 
shines  over  his  dust,  and  more  than  one  splendid 
monument  has  been  reared  in  other  places  to  his 
fame ;  the  street  where  he  languished  in  poverty  is 

80  called  by  his  name ;  the  highest  personages  in  our 
literature  have  been  proud  to  appear  as  his  com- 
mentators and  admirers;  and  here  is  the  sixth 
laarrative  of  his  Life  that  has  been  given  to  the 
world ! 

43 


44  CARLYLE'S 

Mr.  Lockhart  thinks  it  necessary  to  apologize  for 
this  new  attempt  on  such  a  subject :  but  his  read- 
ers, we  believe,  will  readily  acquit  him;  or,  at 
worst,  will  censure  only  the  performance  of  his  task, 
not  the  choice  of  it.  The  character  of  Burns,  5 
indeed,  is  a  theme  that  cannot  easily  become  either 
trite  or  exhausted ;  and  will  probably  gain  rather 
than  lose  in  its  dimensions  hj  the  distance  to 
which  it  is  removed  by  Time.  No  man,  it  has 
been  said,  is  a  hero  to  his  valet ;  and  this  is  jarob-  lo 
ably  true ;  but  the  fault  is  at  least  as  likely  to  be 
the  valet's  as  the  hero's.  For  it  is  certain  that  to 
the  vulgar  eye  few  things  are  wonderful  that  are 
not  distant.  It  is  difficult  for  men  to  believe  that 
the  man,  the  mere  man  whom  they  see,  nay,  per-  is 
haps  painfully  feel,  toiling  at  their  side  through  the 
poor  Jostlings  of  existence,  can  be  made  of  finer 
clay  than  themselves.  Suppose  that  some  dining 
acquaintance  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's,  and  neighbour 
of  John  a  Combe's,  had  snatched  an  hour  or  two  20 
from  the  preservation  of  his  game,  and  written  us 
a  Life  of  Shakspeare!  What  dissertations  should 
we  not  have  had, — not  on  Ha) n let  and  The  Tejnpesf, 
but  on  the  wool-trade,  and  deer-stealing,  and  the 
libel  and  vagi'ant  laws;  and  how  the  Poacher  25 
became  a  Player;  and  how  Sir  Thomas  and  Mr. 
John  had  Christian  bowels,  and  did  not  push 
him  to  extremities!  Li  like  manner,  we  believe, 
with  respect  to  Burns,  that  till  the  companions  of 
his  pilgrimage,  the  Honorable  Excise  Commission-  30 


BURNS  45 

ers,  and  the  Gentlemen  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt, 
and  the  Dumfries  Aristocracy,  and  all  the  Squires 
and  Earls,  equally  with  the  Ayr  Writers,  and  the 
New  and  Old  Light  Clergy,  whom  he  had  to  do 
5  with,  shall  have  become  invisible  in  the  darkness 
of  the  Past,  or  visible  only  by  light  borrowed  from 
his  juxtaposition,  it  Avill  be  difficult  to  measure 
him  by  any  true  standard,  or  to  estimate  what  he 
really  was  and  did,  in  the  eighteenth  century,  for 

/o  his  country  and  the  world.  It  will  be  difficult,  we 
say ;  but  still  a  fair  problem  for  literary  historians ; 
and  repeated  attemj^ts  will  give  us  repeated 
approximations. 

His  former  Biographers  have  done  something,  no 

15  doubt,  but  by  no  means  a  great  deal,  to  assist  us. 
Dr.  Cm-rie  and  Mr.  Walker,  the  principal  of  these 
writers,  have  both,  we  think,  mistaken  one  essen- 
tially important  thing:  Their  own  and  the  world's 
true  relation  to  their  author,  and  the  style  in  which 

20  it  became  such  men  to  think  and  to  speak  of  such 
a  man.  Dr.  Currie  loved  the  poet  truly ;  more  per- 
haps than  he  avowed  to  his  readers,  or  even  to 
himself;  yet  he  everywhere  introduces  him  with  a 
certain  patronizing,  aiwlogetic  air ;  as  if  the  polite 

25  public  might  think  it  strange  and  half  unwarrant- 
able that  he,  a  man  of  science,  a  scholar  and 
gentleman,  should  do  such  honour  to  a  rustic.  In  all 
this,  however,  we  readily  admit  that  his  fault  was 
hot   want  of  love,   but    weakness  of    faith;    and 

30  regret  that  the  fii'st  and  kindest  of  all  our  poet's 


46  ,  CARLYLES 

biographers  should  not  have  seen  farther,  or  believed 
more  boldly  what  he  saw.  Mr.  "Walker  offends 
more  deeply  in  the  same  kind:  and  both  err  alike 
in  presenting  ns  with  a  detached  catalogue  of  hia 
several  supposed  attributes,  virtues  and  vices,  5 
instead  of  a  delineation  of  the  resulting  character 
as  a  living  unity.  This,  however,  is  not  painting  a 
portrait;  but  gauging  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  several  features,  and  jotting  down  their  dimen- 
sions in  arithmetical  ciphers.  Nay,  it  is  not  so  u 
much  as  that :  for  we  are  yet  to  learn  by  what  arts 
or  instruments  the  mind  could  be  so  measured  and 
gauged. 

Mr.  Lockhart,  we  are  happy  to  say,  has  avoided 
both  these  errors.  He  uniformly  treats  Burns  as  is 
the  high  and  remarkable  man  the  public  voice  has 
now  pronounced  him  to  be:  and  in  delineating 
him,  he  has  avoided  the  method  of  separate  gener- 
alities, and  rather  sought  for  characteristic  inci- 
dents, habits,  actions,  sayings;  in  a  word,  for  so 
aspects  which  exhibit  the  whole  man,  as  he  looked 
and  lived  among  his  fellows.  The  book  accord- 
ingly, with  all  its  deficiencies,  gives  more  insight, 
we  think,  into  the  true  character  of  Ikirns,  than 
any  prior  biography:  though,  being  written  on  the  2n 
very  popular  and  condensed  scheme  of  an  article 
for  CouHtahle's  Miscellany^  it  has  less  depth  than 
we  could  have  wished  and  expected  from  a  writer 
of  such  power ;  and  contains  rather  more,  and  more 
multifarious  quotations  than  belong  of  right  to  an  3C 


BURNS  47 

original  production.  Indeed,  Mr.  Lockhart's  own 
writing  is  generally  so  good,  so  clear,  direct,  and 
nervous,  that  we  seldom  wish  to  see  it  making  place 
for  anotlier  man's.  However,  the  spirit  of  the 
5  work  is  throughout  candid,  tolerant,  and  anxiously 
conciliating ;  compliments  and  praises  are  liberally 
distributed,  on  all  hands,  to  gi'eat  and  small ;  and, 
as  Mr,  Morris  Birkbeck  observes  of  the  society  in 
the    backwoods  of    America,    "the  courtesies    of 

10  polite  life  are  never  lost  sight  of  for  a  moment." 
But  there  are  better  things  than  these  in  the  vol- 
ume; and  we  can  safely  testify,  not  only  that  it  is 
easily  and  pleasantly  read  a  first  time,  but  may  even 
be  without  difficulty  read  again. 

15  Nevertheless,  we  are  far  from  thinking  that  tne 
problem  of  Burns 's  Biography  has  yet  been  ade- 
quately solved.  We  do  not  allude  so  much  to 
deficiency  of  facts  or  documents, — though  of  these 
we  are  still  every  day  receiving  some  fresh  acces- 

20  sion, — as  to  the  limited  and  imperfect  application 
of  them  to  the  gi'eat  end  of  Biography.  Our 
notions  upon  this  subject  may  perhaps  appear 
extravagant ;  but  if  an  individual  is  really  of  conse- 
quence   enough  to  have    his   life    and    character 

25  recorded  for  public  remembrance,  we  have  always 
been  of  opinion  that  the  public  ought  to  be  made 
acquainted  with  all  the  inward  springs  and  relations 
of  his  character.  How  did  the  world  and  man's 
life,  from  his  particular  position,  represent  them- 

30  selves  to  his  mind?     How  did  coexisting  circum- 


48  CARLYLE'S 

stances  modify  him  from  without;  how  did  he 
modify  these  from  within?  With  what  endeavours 
and  what  efficacy  rule  over  them ;  with  what  resist- 
ance and  what  suffering  sink  under  them?  In  one 
word,  what  and  how  produced  was  the  effect  of  5 
society  on  him ;  what  and  how  produced  was  his 
effect  on  society?  He  who  sliould  answer  these 
questions,  in  regard  to  any  individual,  would,  as  we 
believe,  furnish  a  model  of  perfection  in  Biography. 
Few  individuals,  indeed,  can  deserve  such  a  study;  ic 
and  many  lives  will  be  written,  and,  for  the  gi*ati- 
fication  of  innocent  curiosity,  ought  to  be  written, 
and  read  and  forgotten,  which  are  not  in  this  sense 
hiographies.  But  Burns,  if  we  mistake  not,  is  one 
of  these  few  individuals ;  and  such  a  study,  at  least  is 
with  such  a  result,  he  has  not  yet  obtained.  Our 
own  contributions  to  it,  we  are  aware,  can  be  but 
scanty  and  feeble ;  but  we  offer  them  with  good- 
will, and  trust  they  may  meet  with  acceptance 
from  those  they  are  intended  for.  2c 

Burns  first  came  upon  the  world  as  a  prodigy ; 
and  was,  in  that  character,  entertained  by  it,  in 
the  usual  fashion,  with  loud,  vague,  tumultuous 
wonder,  speedily  subsiding  into  censure  and  neglect ; 
till  his  early  and  most  mournful  death  again  25 
awakened  an  enthusiasm  for  him,  which,  especially 
as  there  was  now  nothing  to  be  done,  and  much  to 
be  spoken,  has  prolonged  itself  even  to  our  own 
time.     It  is  true,  the  "nine  days"  have  long  since 


BURNS  49 

elapsed ;  and  the  very  continuance  of  this  clamour 
proves  that  Burns  was  no  vulgar  wonder.  Accord- 
ingly, even  in  sober  judgments,  where,  as  years 
passed  by,  he  has  come  to  rest  more  and  more 
5  exclusively  on  his  own  intrinsic  merits,  and  may 
now  be  well-nigh  shorn  of  that  casual  radiance,  he 
appears  not  only  as  a  true  British  poet,  but  as  one 
of  the  most  considerable  British  men  of  the  eight- 
eenth century.     Let  it  not  be  objected  that  he  did 

10  little.  He  did  much,  if  we  consider  where  and 
h«w.  If  the  work  performed  was  small,  we  must 
remember  that  he  had  his  very  materials  to  dis- 
cover ;  for  the  metal  he  worked  in  lay  hid  under 
the  desert,  where  no  eye  but  his  had  guessed  its 

15  existence ;  and  we  may  almost  say  that  with  his  own 
hand  he  had  to  construct  the  tools  for  fashioning 
it.  For  he  found  himself  in  deepest  obscurity, 
without  help,  without  instruction,  without  model; 
or    with  models  only  of   the  meanest  sort.      An 

20  educated  man  stands,  as  it  were,  in  the  midst  of  a 
boundless  arsenal  and  magazine,  filled  with  all  the 
weapons  and  engines  which  man's  skill  has  been 
able  to  devise  from  the  earliest  tim?v  and  he 
works,  accordingly,  with  a  strength  borroTsd  from 

25  all  past  ages.  How  diiferent  is  Ms  state  who 
stands  on  the  outside  of  that  storehouse,  and  feels 
that  its  gates  must  be  stormed,  or  remain  forever 
shut  against  him!  His  means  are  the  commonest 
and  rudest ;  the  mere  work  done  is  no  measure  of 

30  his  strength.      A  dwarf  behind  his  steam-engine 


50  CARLYLE'S 

may  remove  mountains;    but  no  dwarf  will   hew 
them  down  with  a  pickaxe:    and  he  must  be  a 
Titan  that  hurls  them  abroad  with  his  arms. 
/*    It  is  in  this  last  shape  that  Burns  presents  him- 
Vself .     Born  in  an  age  the  most  prosaic  Britain  had  5 
yet  seen,  and  in  a  condition  the  most  disadvan- 
tageous, where  his  mind,  if  it  accomplished  aught, 
must  accomplish  it  under  the  pressure  of  continual 
bodily  toil,  nay,  of  penury  and  desponding  appre- 
hension of  the  worst  evils,  and  with  no  furtherance  lu 
but  such  knowledge  as  dwells  in  a  poor  man's  hut, 
and  the  rhymes  of  a  Ferguson  or  Ramsay  for  his 
standard  of  beauty,  he  sinks  not  under  all  these 
impediments:    through  the  fogs  and  darkness  of 
that  obscure  region,  his  lynx  eye  discerns  the  true  i5 
relations  of  the  world  and  human  life;  he  grows 
into  intellectual  strength,  and  trains  himself  into 
intellectual  expertness'.^     Impelled  by  the  expan- 
sive movement    of  his  own  irrepressible  soul,  he 
struggles  forward  into  the  general  view;  and  with  2C 
haughty  modesty  lays  down  before  us,  as  the  fruit 
of  his  labour,  a  gift  which  Time  has  now  pronounced 
imperishable.     Add  to  all  this,  that  his  darksome 
drudging  childhood  and  youth  was  by  far  the  kind- 
liest era  of  his  whole  life ;  and  that  he  died  in  his  25 
thirty-seventh  year:  find  then  ask.  If  it  be  strange 
that  his  poems  are  imperfect,  and  of  small  extent, 
or  that  his  genius  attained  no  mastery  in  its  art? 
Alas,  his  Sun  shone  as  through  a  tropical  tornado ; 
and  the  pale  Shadow  of  Death  eclipsed  it  at  noon !  so 


BURNS  51 

Shrouded  in  such  baleful  vapours,  the  genius  of 
Burns  was  never  seen  in  clear  azure  splendour, 
enlightening  the  world:  but  some  beams  from  it 
did,  by  fits,  pierce  through;   and  it  tinted  those 

5  clouds  with  rainbow  and  orient  colours,  into  a  glory 
and  stern  grandeur,  which  men  silently  gazed  on 
with  wonder  and  tears ! 

We  are  anxious  not  to  exaggerate ;  for  it  is  expo- 
sition   rather  than    admiration  that    our    readers 

10  require  of  us  here ;  and  yet  to  avoid  some  tendency 
to  that  side  is  no  easy  matter.  We  love  Burns, 
and  we  pity  him ;  and  love  and  pity  are  prone  to 
magnify.  Criticism,  it  is  sometimes  thought, 
should  be  a  cold  business ;  we  are  not  so  sure  of 

15  this ;  but,  at  all  events,  our  concern  with  Burns  is 
not  exclusively  that  of  critics.  True  and  genial  as 
his  poetry  must  appear,  it  is  not  chiefly  as  a  poet, 
but  as  a  man,  that  he  interests  and  affects  us.  He 
was  often  advised  to  write  a  tragedy:    time  and 

20  means  were  not  lent  him  for  this ;  but  through 
life  he  enacted  a  tragedy,  and  one  of  the  deepest. 
We  question  whether  the  world  has  since  witnessed 
80  utterly  sad  a  scene;  whether  Napoleon  himself, 
left  to  brawl  with  Sir  Hudson  Lowe,  and  perish  on 

25  his  rock,  "amid  the  melancholy  main,"  presented 
to  the  reflecting  mind  such  a  "spectacle  of  pity 
and  fear,"  as  did  this  intrinsically  nobler,  gentler, 
and  perhaps  greater  soul,  wasting  itself  away  in  a 
hopeless  struggle  with  base  entanglements,  which 

so  coiled  closer  and  closer  round  him,  till  only  death 


52  CARLYLE'S 

opened  him  an  outlet.     Conquerors  are  a  class  of 
men  with  whom,  for  most  part,  the  world  could 
well   dispense;    nor    can    the  hard    intellect,  the 
unsympathizing    loftiness,   and    high    but    selfish 
enthusiasm  of  such  persons  inspire  us  in  general   s 
with  any  affection;  at  best  it  may  excite  amaze- 
ment ;  and  their  fall,  like  that  of  a  p}Tamid,  will 
be  beheld  with  a  certain  sadness  and  awe.     But  a 
true  Poet,  a  man  in  whose  heart  resides  some  efflu- 
ence   of    Wisdom,  some    tone    of    the    "Eternal  lo 
Melodies,"  is  the  most  jirecious  gift  that  can  be 
bestowed  on  a  generation :  Ave  see  in  him  a  freer, 
jourer  development  of  whatever  is  noblest  in  our-    ^.■ 
selves;  his  life  is  a  rich  lesson  to  us;  and  we  mourn 
his  death  as  that  of  a  benefactor  who  loved  and  is  -(_ 
taught  us.  r\ 

Such  a  gift  had  Nature,  in  her  bounty,  bestowed     ^ 
on  us  in  Robert  Burns ;  but  with  queenlike  indiffer-       ^ 
ence  she  cast  it  from  her  hand,  like  a  thing  of  no 
moment ;  and  it  was  defaced  and  torn  asunder,  as  20 
an  idle  bauble,  before  we  recognized  it.     To  the 
ill-starred  Burns  was  given  the  power  of  making 
man's   life    more    venerable,   but    that  of    wisely 
guiding  his  own  life  was  not  given.     Destiny, — for 
so  in  our  ignorance  we  must  speak, — his  faults,  the  25 
faults  of  others,  proved  too  hard  for  him ;  and  that 
spirit  which  might  have  soared  could  it  but  have 
walked,  soon  sank  to  the  dust,  its  glorious  faculties 
trodden  under  foot  in  the  blossom;  and  died,  we 
may  almost  say,  without  ever  having  lived.     And  30 


BURNS  53 

80  kind  and  warm  a  soul;  so  full  of  inborn  riches, 
of  love  to  all  living  and  lifeless  things !  How  his 
heart  flows  out  in  sympathy  over  universal  Nature; 
and  in  her  bleakest  jjrovinces  discerns  a  beauty  and 

0  a  meaning!  The  "Daisy"  falls  not  unheeded 
under  his  ploughshare ;  nor  the  ruined  nest  of  that 
"wee,  cowering,  timorous  beastie, "  cast  forth, 
after  all  its  provident  pains,  to  "thole  the  sleety 
dril)ble  and  cranreuch  cauld."     The  "hoar  visage" 

ro  of  Winter  delights  him ;  he  dwells  with  a  sad  and 
oft-returning  fondness  in  these  scenes  of  solemn 
desolation;  but  the  voice  of  the  tempest  becomes 
an  anthem  to  his  ears;  he  loves  to  walk  in  the 
sounding  woods,  for  "it  raises  his  thoughts  to  Him 

15  that  walketli  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.'^  A  true 
Poet-soul,  for  it  needs  but  to  be  struck,  and  the 
soun.d  it  yields  will  be  music!  But  observe  him 
chiefly  as  he  mingles  with  his  brotlier  men.  What 
warm,     all-comprehending     fellow-feeling;     what 

20  trustful,  boundless  love ;  what  generous  exaggera- 
tion of  the  object  loved!  His  rustic  friend,  his 
nut-brown  maiden,  are  no  longer  mean  and  homely, 
but  a  hero  and  a  queen,  whom  he  prizes  as  the 
paragons  of  Earth.     The  rough  scenes  of  Scottisli, 

25  life,  not  seen  by  him  in  any  Arcadian  illusion,  but 
in  the  rude  contradiction,  in  the  smoke  and  soil  of 
a  too  harsh  reality,  are  still  lovely  to  him:  Poverty 
is  indeed  his  companion,  but  Love  also,  and 
Courage;  the  simple  feelings,  the  worth,  the  noble- 

30  ness,  that  dwell  under  the  straw  roof,  ai'e  dear  and 


54  CARLYLE'S 

venerable  to  his  heart:  and  thus  over  the  lowest 
provinces  of  man's  existence  he  pours  the  glory  o£ 
his  own  soul;  and  they  rise,  in  shadow  and  sun- 
shine, softened  and  brightened  into  a  beauty  which 
other  eyes  discern  not  in  the  highest.  He  has  a  5 
just  self-consciousness,  which  too  often  degenerates 
into  pride;  yet  it  is  a  noble  pride,  for  defence,  not 
for  offence ;  no  cold  suspicious  feeling,  but  a  frank 
and  social  one.  The  Peasant  Poet  bears  himself, 
we  might  say,  like  a  King  in  exile:  he  is  cast  lO 
among  the  low,  and  feels  himself  equal  to  the  high- 
est ;  yet  he  claims  no  rank,  that  none  may  be  dis- 
puted to  him.  The  forward  he  can  repel,  the 
supercilious  he  can  subdue ;  pretensions  of  wealth 
or  ancestry  are  of  no  avail  with  him ;  there  is  a  i& 
fu*e  in  that  dark  eye,  under  which  the  "insolence 
of  condescension"  cannot  thrive.  In  his  abase- 
ment, in  his  extreme  need,  he  forgets  not  for  a 
moment  the  majesty  of  Poetry  and  Manhood.  And 
yet,  far  as  he  feels  himself  above  common  men,  he  20 
wanders  not  apart  from  them,  but  mixes  warmly  in 
their  interests;  nay,  throws  himself  into  their 
arms,  and,  as  it  Avere,  entreats  them  to  love  him. 
It  is  moving  to  see  how,  in  his  darkest  despond- 
ency, this  joroud  being  still  seeks  relief  from  25 
friendship;  unbosoms  himself,  often  to  the 
unworthy;  and,  amid  tears,  strains  to  his  glowing 
heart  a  heart  tliat  knows  only  the  name  of  friend- 
ship. And  yet  he  was  "quick  to  learn;"  a  man  of 
keen    vision,    before     whom     common     disguises  30 


BURNS  65 

afforded  no  concealment.  His  understanding  saw 
through  the  hollowness  even  of  accomplished  de- 
ceivers ;  but  there  was  a  generous  credulity  in  his 
heart.      And  so   did   our    Peasant   show   himself 

5  among  us;  "a  soul  like  an  ^olian  harp,  in  whose 
strings  the  vulgar  wind,  as  it  passed  through  them, 
changed  itself  into  articulate  melody. "  And  this 
was  he  for  whom  the  world  found  no  fitter  business 
than  quarreling  with  smugglers  and  vintners,  com- 

i«  jniting  excise-dues  upon  tallow,  and  gauging  ale- 
barrels  !  In  such  toils  was  that  mighty  Spirit  sor- 
rowfully wasted :  and  a  hundi'ed  years  may  pass  on, 
before  another  such  is  given  us  to  waste. 

All  that  remains  of  Burns,  the  Writings  he  has 
15  left,  seem  to  us,  as  we  hinted  above,  no  more  than 
a  poor  mutilated  fraction  of  what  was  in  him; 
brief,  broken  glimpses  of  a  genius  that  could  never 
show  itself  complete;  that  wanted  all  things  for 
completeness :  culture,  leisure,  true  effort,  nay, 
20  even  length  of  life.  His  poems  are,  with  scarcely 
any  exception,  mere  occasional  effusions;  poured 
forth  with  little  premeditation ;  expressing,  by  such 
means  as  offered,  the  passion,  oj^inion,  or  humour  of 
the  hour.  Never  in  one  instance  was  it  permitted 
25  him  to  grapple  with  any  subject  with  the  full  col- 
lection of  his  strength,  to  fuse  and  mould  it  in  the 
concentrated  fire  of  his  genius.  To  try  by  the  strict 
rules  of  Art  such  imperfect  fragments,  would  be  at 
once  unprofitable  and  unfair.      Nevertheless,  there 


56  CARLYLE'S 

is  something  in  these  poems,  marred  and  defective 
as  they  are,  which  forbids  the  most  fastidious  stu- 
dent of  poetry  to  pass  them  by.  Some  sort  of 
enduring  quality  they  must  have:  for  after  fifty 
years  of  the  wildest  vicissitudes  in  poetic  taste,  they  5 
still  continue  to  be  read;  nay,  are  read  more  and 
more  eagerly,  more  and  more  extensively;  and  this 
not  only  by  literary  virtuosos,  and  that  class  upon 
whom  transitory  causes  operate  most  strongly,  out 
by  all  classes,  down  to  the  most  hard,  unlettered,  10 
and  truly  natural  class,  who  read  little,  and  especi- 
ally no  poetry,  except  because  they  find  pleasure  in 
it.  The  grounds  of  so  singular  and  wide  a  popu- 
larity, which  extends,  in  a  literal  sense,  from  the 
palace  to  the  hut,  and  over  all  regions  where  the  is 
English  tongue  is  spoken,  are  well  worth  inquiring 
into.  After  every  just  deduction,  it  seems  to 
imply  some  rare  excellence  in  these  works.  AVhat 
is  that  excellence? 

To  answer  this  question  will  not  lead  us  far.  20 
The  excellence  of  Burns  is,  indeed,  among  the 
rarest,  whether  in  poetry  or  prose;  but,  at  the 
same  time,  it  is  plain  and  easily  recognized:  his 
Sincerity,  his  indisputable  air  of  I'ruth.  Here 
are  no  fabulous  woes  or  joys;  no  hollow  fantastic  25. 
sentimentalities;  no  wiredi-awn  refitiings,  either  in 
thought  or  feeling :  the  passion  that  is  traced  before 
us  has  glowed  in  a  living  heart;  the  opinion  he 
utters  has  risen  in  his  own  understanding,  and  been 
a  light  to  his  own  steps.     lie  does  not  write  from  30 


BURNS  57 

hearsay,  but  from  sight  and  experience ;  it  is  the 
scenes  that  he  has  lived  and  laboured  amidst,  that 
he  describes :  those  scenes,  rude  and  humble  as  they 
are,  have  kindled  beautiful  emotions  in  his  soul, 
5  noble  thoughts,  and  definite  resolves ;  and  he  speaks 
forth  what  is  in  him,  not  from  any  outward  call  of 
yanity  or  interest,  but  because  his  heart  is  too  full  to 
be  silent.  He  speaks  it  with  such  melody  and  mod- 
ulation as  he  can ;  "in  homely  rustic  jingle ;"  but  it 

10  is  his  own,  and  genuine.  This  is  the  grand  secret 
for  finding  readers  and  retaining  them:  let  him 
who  would  move  and  convince  others,  be  first 
moved  and  convinced  himself.  Horace's  rule,  Si 
vis  me  Jlere,  is  applicable  in  a  wider  sense  than 

15  the  literal  one.  To  every  poet,  to  every  writer,  we 
might  say :  Be  true,  if  you  would  be  believed.  Let 
a  man  but  speak  forth  with  genuine  earnestness 
the  thought,  the  emotion,  the  actual  condition  of 
his  own  heart ;  and  other  men,  so  strangely  are  we 

20  all  knit  together  by  the  tie  of  sympathy,  must  and 
will  give  heed  to  him.  In  culture,  in  extent  of 
view,  we  may  stand  above  the  speaker,  or  below 
him;  but  in  either  case,  his  words,  if  they  are 
earnest  and  sincere,  will  find  some  response  within 

25  us ;  for  in  spite  of  all  casual  varieties  in  outwarc/ 
rank  or  inward,  as  face  answers  to  face,  so  does 
the  heart  of  man  to  man. 

This  may  appear  a  very  simple  principle,  and 
one  which  Burns  had  little  merit  in  discovering. 

30  True,  the  discovery  is  easy  enough :  but  the  prac- 


58  CARLYLES 

tical  appliance  is  not  easy,-  is  indeed  the  funda* 
mental  difficulty  which  all  poets  have  to  strive 
with,  and  ^hich  scarcely  one  in  the  hundi-ed  ever 
fairly  sui'T^.^unts.  A  head  too  dull  to  discriminate 
the  true  from  the  false ;  a  heart  too  dull  to  love  the  5 
one  at  all  risks,  and  to  hate  the  other  in  spite  of  all 
temptations,  are  alike  fatal  to  a  writer.  With 
either,  or,  as  more  commonly  happens,  with  both 
of  these  deficiencies,  combine  a  love  of  distinction, 
a  wish  to  be  original,  which  is  seldom  wanting;  lo 
and  we  have  Affectation,  the  bane  ol  literatm'e,  as 
Cant,  its  elder  brother,  is  of  morals.  How  often 
does  the  one  and  the  other  front  us,  in  poetry,  as 
in  life !  Great  poets  themselves  are  not  always  free 
of  Ihis  vice ;  nay,  it  is  precisely  on  a  certain  sort  is 
and  degree  of  greatness  that  it  is  most  commonly 
ingrafted.  A  strong  effort  after  excellence  will 
sometimes  solace  itself  with  a  mere  shadow  of  suc- 
cess ;  he  who  has  much  to  unfold,  will  sometimes 
unfold  it  imperfectly.  Byron,  for  instance,  was,  20 
no  common  man:  yet  if  we  examine  his  poetry 
with  this  view,  we  shall  find  it  far  enough  from 
faultless.  Generally  speaking,  we  should  say  that 
it  is  not  true.  lie  refreshes  us,  not  with  the 
divine  fountain,  but  too  often  with  vulgar  strong  25 
waters,  stimulating  indeed  to  the  taste,  but  soon 
ending  in  dislike,  or  even  nausea.  Are  his  Harolds 
and  Giaours,  we  would  ask,  real  men;  we  mean, 
poetically  consistent  and  conceivable  men?  Do 
not  these  characters,  does  not  the  character  of  their  30 


BURNS  59 

author,  which  more  or  less  shines  through  them  all, 
rather  appear  a  thing  put  on  for  the  occasion ;  no 
natural  or  possible  mode  of  being,  but  somethiiig 
intended    to    look   much    gi'ander    than    nature? 

5  Surely,  all  these  stormful  agonies,  this  volcanic 
heroism,  superhuman  contempt,  and  moody 
desperation,  with  so  much  scowling,  and  teeth- 
gnashing,  and  other  sulphurous  humom%  is  more 
like  the  brawling  of  a  player  in  some  paltry  tragedy, 

10  which  is  to  last  three  hours,  than  the  bearing  of  a 
man  in  the  business  of  life,  which  is  to  last  three- 
score and  ten  years.  To  our  minds  there  is  a  taint 
of  this  sort,  something  which  we  should  call 
theatrical,   false,  affected,   in  every  one  of  these 

15  otherwise  so  powerful  i^ieces.  Perhaps  Don  Juan^ 
especially  the  latter  parts  of  it,  is  the  only  thing 
approaching  to  a  sincere  work,  he  ever  wrote ;  the 
only  work  where  he  showed  himself,  in  any  meas- 
ure, as  he  was ;  and  seemed  so  intent  on  his  sub- 

20  Ject  as,  for  moments,  to  forget  himself.  Yet 
Byron  hated  this  vice;  we  believe,  heartily  detested 
it :  nay,  he  had  declared  formal  war  against  it  in 
words.  So  difficult  is  it  even  for  the  strongest  to 
make  this  primary  attainment,  which  might  seem 

25  the  simplest  of  all :  to  read  its  own  consciousness 
without  mistakes,  without  errors  involuntary  or 
wilful!  We  recollect  no  poet  of  Burns's  suscepti- 
bility who  comes  before  us  from  the  first,  and  abides 
with  us  to  the  last,  with  such  a  total  want  of  aliecta- 

30  tion.     He  is  an  honest  man,  and  an  honest  writer. 


60  CARLYLE'S 

In  his  successes  and  his  faiku'es,  in  his  greatness 
and  his  littleness,  he  is  ever  clear,  simple,  true,  and 
glitters  with  no  lustre  but  his  own.  "We  reckon 
this  to  be  a  gi*eat  virtue;  to  be,  in  fact,  the  root  of 
most  other  virtues,  literary  as  well  as  moral.  t 

Here,  however,  let  us  say,  it  is  to  the  Poetry  of 
Burns  that  we  now  allude ;  to  those  writings  which 
he  had  time  to  meditate,  and  where  no  special 
reason  existed  to  warp  his  critical  feeling,  or 
obstruct  his  endeavom-  to  fulfil  it.  Certain  of  his  lo 
Letters,  and  other  fractions  of  prose  composition, 
by  no  means  deserve  this  praise.  Here,  doubtless, 
there  is  not  the  same  natural  trutli  of  style ;  but  on 
the  contrary,  something  not  only  stiff,  but  strained 
and  twisted;  a  certain  high-flown  inflated  tone;  is 
the  stilting  emphasis  of  which  contrasts  ill  with  the 
firmness  and  rugged  simplicity  of  even  his  poorest 
verses.  Thus  no  man,  it  would  appear,  is  alto- 
gether unaffected.  Does  not  Shakspeare  himself 
sometimes  premeditate  the  sheerest  bombast !  But  20 
even  Avith  regard  to  these  Letters  of  Burns,  it  is 
but  fair  to  state  that  he  had  two  excuses.  The 
first  was  his  compai-ative  deficiency  in  language. 
Burns,  though  for  most  part  he  A\Tites  with  singular 
force,  and  even  gi'acefulness,  is  not  master  of  25 
English  prose,  as  he  is  of  Scottish  verse ;  not  master 
of  it,  we  mean,  in  proportion  to  the  depth  and 
vehemence  of  his  matter.  These  Letters  strike  us 
as  the  effort  of  a  man  to  express  something  which 
he  has  no  organ  fit  for  expressing.     But  a  second  30 


BURNS  61 

and  weightier  excuse  is  to  be  found  in  the  pecul- 
iarity of  Burns 's  social  rank.  His  correspondents 
are  often  men  whose  relation  to  him  ho  has  never 
accurately  ascertained;  whom  therefore  he  is  either 
5  forearming  himself  against,  or  else  unconsciously 
flattering,  by  adopting  the  style  he  thinks  will 
please  them.  At  all  events,  we  should  remember 
that  these  faults,  even  in  his  Letters,  are  not  the 
rule,  but  the  exception.     Whenever  he  writes,  as 

10  one  would  ever  wish  to  do,  to  trusted  friends  and 
on  real  interests,  his  style  becomes  simple,  vigorous, 
expressive,  sometimes  even  beautiful.  His  letters 
to  Mrs.  Dunlop  are  uniformly  excellent. 

But  we  return  to  his  Poetry.     In  addition  to  its 

15  Sincerity,  it  has  another  peculiar  merit,  which 
indeed  is  but  a  mode,  or  perhaps  a  means,  of  the 
foregoing :  this  displays  itself  in  his  choice  of  sub- 
jects; or  rather  in  his  indifference  as  to  subjects, 
and  the    power  he    has  of    making  all    subjects 

20  interesting.  The  ordinary  poet,  like  the  ordinary 
man,  is  forever  seeking  in  external  circumstances 
the  help  which  can  be  found  only  in  himself.  In 
what  is  familiar  and  near  at  hand,  he  discerns  no 
form   or  comeliness:    home   is    not   poetical,  but 

25  prosaic;  it  is  in  some  past,  distant,  conventional 
heroic  world,  that  poetry  resides  for  him ;  were  he 
there  and  not  here,  were  he  thus  and  not  so,  it 
would  be  well  with  him.  Hence  our  innumerable 
host  of  rose-coloured  Novels  and  ironmailed  Epics, 

30  with  their  locality  not  on  the  earth,  but  somewhere 


62  CARLYLE'S 

nearer  to  tlie  Moon.  Hence  om*  Virgins  of  the 
Sun,  and  onr  Knights  of  the  Cross,  malicious 
Saracens  in  tui'bans,  and  copper-colonred  Chiefs  in 
wampum,  and  so  many  otlier  truculent  figures 
from  the  heroic  times  or  the  heroic  climates,  who  5 
on  all  hands  swarm  in  our  poetry.  Peace  be  with 
them!  But  yet,  as  a  great  moralist  proposed 
preaching  to  the  men  of  this  century,  so  would  we 
fain  preach  to  the  poets,  *'a  sermon  on  the  duty  of 
staying  at  home."  Let  them  be  sure  that  heroic  lo 
ages  and  heroic  climates  can  do  little  for  them. 
That  form  of  life  has  attraction  for  us,  less  because 
it  is  better  or  nobler  than  our  own,  than  simply 
because  it  is  different;  and  even  this  attraction 
must  be  of  the  most  transient  sort.  For  will  not  i5 
our  own  age,  one  day,  be  an  ancient  one ;  and  have 
as  quaint  a  costume  as  the  rest;  not  contrasted 
with  the  rest,  therefore,  but  ranked  along  with 
them,  in  respect  of  quaintness?  Does  Homer  inter- 
est us  now,  because  he  wrote  of  what  passed  beyond  20 
liis  native  Greece,  and  two  centuries  before  he  was 
born;  or  because  he  wrote  what  passed  in  God's 
world,  and  in  the  heart  of  man,  which  is  the  same 
after  thirty  centuries?  Let  our  poets  look  to  this : 
is  their  feeling  really  finer,  truer,  and  their  vision  25 
deeper  than  that  of  other  men, — they  have  nothing 
to  fear,  even  from  the  humblest  subject;  is  it  not 
so, — they  have  nothing  to  hope,  Ijut  an  ephemeral 
favour,  even  from  the  highest. 

The  poet,  we  imagine,  can  never  have  far  to  seek  30 


BURNS  63 

for  a  subject:  the  elements  of  his  art  are  in  him, 
and  around  him  on  every  hand;  for  him  the  Ideal 
world  is  not  remote  from  the  Actual,  but  under  it 
and  within  it :  nay,  he  is  a  poet,  precisely  because 

5  he  can  discern  it  there.  ,  Wherever  there  is  a  sky 
above  him,  and  a  world  around  him,  the  poet  is  in 
his  place;  for  here  too  is  man's  existence,  with  its 
infinite  longings  and  small  acquirings;  its  ever- 
thwarted,  ever -renewed  endeavours ;  its  unspeakable 

10  aspirations,  its  fears  and  hopes  that  wander  through 
Eternity ;  and  all  the  mystery  of  brightness  and  of 
gloom  that  it  Avas  ever  made  of,  in  any  age  or  cli- 
mate, since  man  first  began  to  live.  Is  there  not 
the  fifth  act  of   a  Tragedy  in   every  death-bed, 

16  though  it  were  a  peasant's,  and  a  bed  of  heath? 
And  are  wooings  and  weddings  obsolete,  that  there 
can  be  Comedy  no  longer?  Or  are  men  suddenly 
grown  wise,  that  Laughter  must  no  longer  shake 
his  sides,  but  be  cheated  of  his  Farce?     Man's  life 

so  and  nature  is  as  it  was,  and  as  it  will  ever  be.  But 
the  poet  must  have  an  eye  to  read  these  things,  and 
a  heart  to  understand  them ;  or  they  come  and  pass 
away  before  him  in  vain.  He  is  a  vates,  a  seer ;  a 
gift  of  vision  has  been  given  him.     Has  life  no 

25  meanings  for  him  which  another  cannot  equally 
decipher ;  then  he  is  no  poet,  and  Delphi  itself  will 
not  make  him  one. 

In  this  respect.  Burns,  though  not  perhaps  abso- 
lutely a  gi'eat  poet,  better  manifests  his  capability, 

30  better  proves  the  Lruth  of  his  genius,  than  if  he 


64  CARLYLE'S 

had  by  his  own  strength  kept  the  whole  Minerva 
Press  going,  to  the  end  of  his  literary  course.  He 
shows  himself  at  least  a  poet  of  Nature's  own  mak- 
ing; and  Nature,  after  all,  is  still  the  grand  agent 
in  making  poets.  We  often  hear  of  this  and  the  5 
other  external  condition  being  requisite  for  the 
existence  of  a  poet.  Sometimes  it  is  a  certain  sort 
of  training;  he  must  have  studied  certain  things, 
studied  for  instance  "the elder  dramatists,"  and  so 
learned  a  poetic  language ;  as  if  poetry  lay  in  the  lo 
tongue,  not  in  the  heart.  At  other  times  we  are 
told  he  must  be  bred  in  a  certain  rank,  and  must 
be  on  confidential  footing  with  the  higher  classes; 
because,  above  all  things,  he  must  see  the  world. 
As  to  seeing  the  world,  we  aj)prehend  this  will  is 
cause  him  little  difficulty,  if  he  have  but  eyesight 
to  see  it  with.  Without  eyesight,  indeed,  the  task 
might  be  hard.  The  blind  or  the  purblind  man 
"travels  from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  and  finds  it  all 
barren."  But  happily  every  poet  is  born  m  the  »o 
world ;  and  sees  it,  with  or  against  his  will,  every 
day  and  every  hour  he  lives.  The  mysterious 
workmansliip  of  man's  heart,  the  true  liglit  and 
the  inscrutable  darkness  of  man's  destiny,  reveal 
themselves  not  only  in  capital  cities  and  crowded  S5 
saloons,  but  in  every  hut  and  hamlet  where  men 
have  their  abode.  Nay,  do  not  the  elements  of  all 
human  virtues  and  all  human  vices ;  the  passions  at 
once  of  a  Borgia  and  of  a  Luther,  lie  written,  in 
stronger  or  fainter  lines,  in  the  consciousness  of  3o 


BURNS  65 

every  individual  bosom  that  has  practibed  honest 
self-examination?  Truly,  this  same  world  may  be 
seen  in  Mossgiel  and  Tarbolton,  if  we  look  well,  as 
clearly  as  it  ever  came  to  light  in  Crockford's,  or 

i  the  Tuileries  itself. 

But  sometimes  still  harder  requisitions  are  laid 
on  the  poor  aspirant  to  poetry ;  for  it  is  hinted  that 
he  should  have  bee?i  horn  two  centuries  ago ;  inas- 
much as  poetry,  about  that  date,  vanished  from  the 

.1/  earth,  and  became  no  longer  attainable  by  men! 
Such  cobweb  speculations  have,  now  and  then, 
overhung  the  field  of  literature ;  but  they  obstruct 
not  the  growth  of  any  plant  there:  the  Shak- 
speare  or  the  Burns,  unconsciously,  and  merely  as 

15  he  walks  onward,  silently  brushes  them  away.     Is 
not  every  genius  an  impossibility  till  he  appear?") 
Why  do  we  call  him  new  and  original,  if  2ve  saw 
where  his  marble  was  lying,  and  what  fabric  he 
could  rear  from  it?     It  is  not  the  material,  but  the 

20  workman  that  is  wanting.  It  is  not  the  dark  ^j/ace 
that  hinders,  but  the  dim  eye.  A  Scottish  peas- 
ant's life  was  the  meanest  and  rudest  of  all  lives,  till 
Burns  became  a  poet  in  it,  and  a  poet  of  it ;  found 
it  a  man's  life,  and  therefore  significant  to  men. 

20  A  thousand  battle-fields  remain  unsung ;  but  the 
Wounded  Hare  has  not  perished  without  its 
memorial ;  a  balm  of  mercy  yet  breathes  on  us  from 
its  dumb  agonies,  because  a  poet  was  there.  Our 
Halloiveen  had  passed  and  repassed,  in  rude  awe 

80  and  laughter,  since  the  era  of  the  Druids ;  but  no 


66  CARLYLE'S 

Theocritus,  till  Burns,  discerned  in  it  the  materials 
of  a  Scottish  Idyl:  neither  was  the  Holy  Fair  any 
Council  of  Trent  or  Roman  Jubilee;  but  neverthe- 
less Superstition  and  Hypocrisy  and  Fmi  having 
been  propitious  to  him,  in  this  man's  hand  it  5 
became  a  poem,  instinct  with  satire  and  genuine 
comic  lifo.  Let  but  the  true  poet  be  given  us,  we 
repeat  it,  place  him  where  and  how  you  will ;  and 
true  poetry  will  not  be  wanting. 

Independently  of  the  essential  gift  of  poetic  feel-  lo 
ing,  as  we  have  now  attempted  to  describe  it,  a 
certain  rugged  sterling  worth  pervades  whatever 
Burns  has  written ;  a  virtue,  as  of  green  fields  and 
mountain  breezes,  dwells  in  his  poetry;  it  is 
redolent  of  natural  life  and  hardy  natural  men.  is 
There  is  a  decisive  strength  in  him,  and  yet  a  sweet 
native  gi'acefulness :  he  is  tender,  he  is  vehement, 
yet  without  constraint  or  too  visible  effort ;  he  melts 
the  heai't,  or  inflames  it,  with  a  power  which  seems 
habitual  and  familiar  to  him.  We  see  that  in  this  20 
man  there  was  tlie  gentleness,  the  trembling  pity 
of  a  woman,  with  the  deep  earnestness,  the  force 
and  passionate  ardour  of  a  hero.  Tears  lie  in  him, 
and  consuming  fire ;  as  lightning  lurks  in  the  di'ops 
of  the  summer  cloud.  He  has  a  resonance  in  his  25 
bosom  for  every  note  of  human  feeling;  the  high 
and  the  low,  the  sad,  the  ludicrous,  the  joyful,  are 
welcome  in  their  turns  to  his  "lightly-moved  and 
all-conceiving  spirit.""  And  observe  with  what  a 
fierce  prompt  force  he  grasps  his  subject,  be  it  30 


BURNS  67 

what  it  may!  How  he  fixes,  as  it  were,  the  full 
image  of  the  matter  in  his  eye ;  full  and  clear  in 
every  lineament;  and  catches  the  real  type  and 
essence  of  it,  amid  a  thousand  accidents  and  super- 
&  ficial  circumstances,  no  one  of  which  misleads  him! 
Is  it  of  reason ;  some  truth  to  be  discovered?  No 
sophistry,  no  vain  surface-logic  -detains  him; 
quick,  resolute,  unerring,  he  pierces  through  into 
the  marrow  of  the  question ;  and  speaks  his  verdict 

10  with  an  emphasis  that  cannot  be  forgotten.  Is  it 
of  description;  some  visual  object  to  be  repre- 
sented? No  poet  of  any  age  or  nation  is  more 
graphic  than  Burns :  the  characteristic  features  dis- 
close themselves  to  him  at  a  glance ;  three  lines  from 

15  his  hand,  and  we  have  a  likeness.  And,  in  that 
rough  dialect,  in  that  rude,  often  awkward  metre, 
so  clear  and  definite  a  likeness!  It  seems  a 
draughtsman  working  with  a  bm'ut  stick ;  and  yet 
the  burin  of  a  Retzsch  is  not  more  expressive  or  exact. 

■?o  Of  this  last  excellence,  the  plainest  and  most  com- 
prehensive of  all,  being  indeed  the  root  and  founda- 
tion of  every  sort  of  talent,  poetical  or  intellectual, 
we  could  produce  innumerable  instances  from  the 
writings  of  Burns.     Take  these  glimpses  of  a  snow- 

»  storm  from  his  Winter  Nigld  (the  italics  are  ours)  : 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure, 
Sharp  shivers  thro'  the  leafless  bow'r, 
And  Phcebus  gies  a  short-liv'd  gloicr 

Far  south  the  lift, 
80  Dim-dark'' ning  thro''  the  flaky  show'r 

Or  whirling  drift: 


68  CARLYLE'S 

'Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rock'd. 
Poor  labour  sweet  in  sleej)  was  lock'd, 
"While  burns  wi'  snaii^y  ivreeths  upcliok'd 

Wild-eddying  sioirl, 
Or  thro'  the  mining  outlet  bock'd  6 

Down  headlong  hurl. 

Are  there  not  "descriptive  touches"  here?  The 
describer  saw  this  thing ;  the  essential  feature  and 
true  likeness  of  every  circumstance  in  it ;  saw,  and 
not  with  the  eye  only.  "Poor  labour  locked  in  lo 
sweet  sleep ; "  the  dead  stillness  of  man,  unconscious, 
vanquished,  yet  not  unprotected,  while  such  strife 
of  the  material  elements  rages,  and  seems  to  reign 
supreme  in  loneliness :  this  is  of  the  heart  as  well 
as  of  the  eye ! — Look  also  at  his  image  of  a  thaw,  is 
and  prophesied  fall  of  the  Auld  Brig: 

When  heavy,  dark,  continued,  a' -day  rains 

Wi"  deepening  deluges  o'erflow  the  plains; 

When  from  the  hills  where  springs  the  brawling  Coil, 

Or  stately  Lugar's  mossy  fountains  hoil,  20 

Or  where  the  Greenock  winds  his  moorland  course, 

Or  haunted  Garpal*  draws  his  feeble  source, 

Arous'd  by  blust'ring  winds  and  spotting  thowes, 

In  mony  a  torrent  down  his  snaic-broo  rowes; 

While  crashing  ice,  borne  on  the  roaring  speat,  25 

Sweeps  dams  and  mills  and  brigs  a'  to  the  gate; 

And  from  Glenbuck  down  to  the  Rottonkey, 

Auld  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthen'd  tumbling  sea; 

Then  down  j^e'll  hurl,  Deil  nor  ye  never  rise! 

And  dash  the  gumlie  jaups  up  to  the  pouring  skies.  30 

The  last  line  is  in  itself  a  Poussin-picture  of  that 
Deluge!     The  welkin  has,  as  it  were,  bent  down 
*Fabulo8U8  Hydasi)es.' 


BURNS  69 

with  its  weight;  the  "gumlie  Jaups"  and  the 
•'pouring  skies"  are  mingled  together;  it  is  a 
world  of  rain  and  ruin, — In  respect  of  mere 
clearness  and  minute  fidelity,  the  Farmer's  com- 

5  mendation  of  his  Auld  Mare,  in  plough  or  in  cart, 
may  vie  with  Homer's  Smithy  of  the  Cyclops,  or 
yoking  of  Priam's  Chariot,  Nor  have  we  forgotten 
stout  Burn-the-Wind  and  his  brawny  customers, 
inspired  by  Scotch  Drinh:  but  it  is  needless  to  mul- 

10  tiply  examples.  One  other  trait  of  a  much  finer 
sort  we  select  from  multitudes  of  such  among  his 
Songs.  It  gives,  in  a  single  line,  to  the  saddest-feel- 
ing the  saddest  environment  and  local  habitation : 

The  pale  Moon  is  setting  beyond  the  white  wave, 
15         And  Time  is  setting  icV  me,  0; 

Farewell,  false  friends!  false  lover,  farewell  1 
I'll  nae  niair  trouble  them  nor  thee,  O. 

This  clearness  of  sight  we  have  called  the  foun- 
dation of  all  talent ;  for  in  fact,  unless  we  see  our 

io  object,  how  shall  we  know  how  to  place  or  prize  it, 
in  our  understanding,  our  imagination,  our  affec- 
tions? Yet  it  is  not  in  itself,  perhaps,  a  very  high 
excellence;  but  capable  of  being  united  indiffer- 
ently with  the  strongest,  or  with  ordinary  powers. 

25  Homer  surpasses  all  men  in  this  quality:  but 
strangely  enough,  at  no  great  distance  below  him 
are  Eichardson  and  Defoe,  It  belongs,  in  truth, 
to  what  is  called  a  lively  mind ;  and  gives  no  sure 
indication  of  the  higher    endowments   that   may 

30  exist  along  with  it.     In  all  the  three  cases  we  have 


70  CARLYLE'S 

mentioned,  it  is  combined  with  great  garrulity; 
their  descriptions  are  detailed,  ample  and  lovingly 
exact;  Homer's  fire  bursts  through,  from  time  to 
time,  as  if  by  accident ;  but  Defoe  and  Richardson 
have  no  fh-e.  Burns,  again,  is  not  more  distin-  5 
guished  by  the  clearness  thiin  by  the  impetuous 
force  of  his  conceptions.  fOf  the  strength,  the 
piercing  emphasis  with  which  he  thought,  Lis 
emphasis  of  expression  may  give  a  humble  but  the 
readiest  proof.  AVho  ever  uttered  sharper  sayings  lo 
than  his ;  words  more  memorable,  now  by  their  burn- 
ing vehemence,  now  by  their  cool  vigour  and  laconic 
pith?  A  single  phrase  depicts  a  whole  subject,  a 
whole  scene.  ^;,  We  hear  of  "a  gentleman  that  de- 
rived his  patent  of  nobility  direct  from  Almighty  i5 
God."  Our  Scottish  forefathers  in  the  battle-field 
struggled  forward,  he  says,  ^^ red-wat-sJiod:"  giving 
in  this  one  word,  a  full  vision  of  horror  and  car- 
nage; perhaps  too  frightfully  accurate  for  Art! 

In  fact,  one  of  the  leading  features  in  the  mind  20 
of  Burns  is  this  vigour  of  his  strictly  intellectual 
percejitions.  A  resolute  force  is  ever  visible  in  his 
judgments,  and  in  his  feelings  and  volitions.  Pro- 
fessor Stewart  says  of  him,  with  some  surprise: 
"All  the  faculties  of  Burns 's  mind  were,  as  far  as  I  25 
could  judge,  equally  vigorous;  and  his  predilec- 
tion for  poetry  was  rather  the  result  of  his  own 
enthusiastic  and  impassioned  temper,  than  of  a 
genius  exclusively  adapted  to  that  species  of  com- 
position,     i-'rom  his  conversation  I  should  have  30 


BURNS  71 

pronounced  him  to  be  fitted  to  excel  in  whatever 
walk  of  ambition  he  had  chosen  to  exert  his  abili- 
ties." But  this,  if  we  mistake  not,  is  at  all  times 
the  very  essence  of  a  truly  poetical  endowment. 
0  Poetry,  except  in  such  cases  as  that  of  Keats,  where 
the  whole  consists  in  a  weak-eyed  maudlin  sensi- 
bility, and  a  certain  vague,  random  tunefulness  of 
nature,  is  no  separate  faculty,  no  organ  which  can 
be  superadded  to  the  rest,  or  disjoined  from  them; 

10  but  rather  the  result  of  their  general  harmony  and 
completion.  The  feelings,  the  gifts,  that  exist  in 
the  Poet  are  those  that  exist,  with  more  or  less 
development,  in  every  human  soul:  the  imagina- 
tion which  shudders  at  the  Hell  of  Dante,  is  the 

15  same  faculty,  weaker  in  degree,  which  called  that 
picture  into  being.  How  does  the  Poet  speak  to 
men,  with  power,  but  by  being  still  more  a  man 
than  they?  Shakspeare,  it  lias  been  well  observed, 
in  the  planning  and  completing  of  his  tragedies, 

20  has  shown  an  Understanding,  were  it  nothing 
more,  which  might  have  governed  states,  or  indited 
a  Novum  Organum.  What  Burns 's  force  of  under- 
standing may  have  been,  we  have  less  means  of 
Judging:    it   had  to  dwell    among   the  humblest 

25  objects;  never  saw  Philosophy;  never  rose,  except 
by  natural  effort  and  for  short  intervals,  into  the 
region  of  gi'eat  ideas.  Nevertheless,  sufficient 
indication,  if  no  proof  sufficient,  remains  for  us  in 
his  works :  we  discern  the  brawny  movements  of  a 

30  gigantic    though    untutored   strength;     and    can 


V^  CARLYLE'S 

understand  how,  in  conversation,  his  quick  sure 
insight  into  men  and  things  may,  as  much  as 
aught  else  abo"t  him,  have  amazed  the  best  think- 
ers of  his  time  and  country. 

But,  unless  we  mistake,  the  intellectual  gift  of  5 
Burns  is  fine  as  well  as  strong.     The  more  deli- 
cate relations  of  things  could  not  well  have  escaped 
his   eye,  for  they  were  intimately  present  to  his 
heart.     The  logic  of  the  senate  and  the  forum  is 
indisi^ensable,  but  not  all-sufficient;  nay,  perhaps  lo 
the  highest   Truth    is  that   which  will    the   most 
certainly  elude  it.      For  this  logic  works  by  words, 
and  "the  highest,"  it  has  been  said,  "cannot  be 
expressed  in  words."     We  are  not  Avithout  tokens 
of  an  openness  for  this  higher  truth  also,  of  a  keen  15 
though  uncultivated  sense  for  it,  having  existed  in 
Burns.     Mr.  Stewart,  it  will  be  remembered,  "won- 
ders," in  the  passage  above  quoted,  that  Burns  had 
formed  some  distinct  conception  of  the  "doctrine 
of  association."     "We  rather  think  that  far  subtler  20 
things  than  the  doctrine  of  association  had  from  of 
old  been  familiar  to  him.     Here  for  instance: 

"We  know  nothing,"  thus  writes  he,  "or  next  to 
nothing,  of  the  structure  of  oiir  souls,  so  we  cannot 
account  for  those  seeming  caprices  in  them,  that  one  25 
should  be  particularly  pleased  with  this  thing,  or  struck 
with  that,  which,  on  minds  of  a  different  cast,  makes 
no  extraordinary  impression.  I  have  some  favourite 
flowers  in  spring,  among  which  are  the  mountain- 
daisy,  the  harebell,  the  fox  glove,  the  wild -brier  rose,  30 
the  budding  birch,  and    the  hoary    hawtliorn,  that  I 


BURNS  73 

view  and  hang  over  with  particular  delight.  I  never 
hear  the  loud  solitary  whistle  of  the  curlew  in  a  sum- 
mer noon,  or  the  wild  mixing  cadence  of  a  troop  of 
gray  plover  in  an  autumnal  morning,  without  feeling 
5  an  elevation  of  soul  like  the  enthusiasm  of  devotion  or 
poetry.  Tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  to  what  can  this  be 
owing?  Are  we  a  piece  of  machinery,  which,  like  the 
^olian  harp,  passive,  takes  the  impression  of  the 
passing  accident;  or  do  these  workings  ax'gue  some- 
10  thing  within  us  above  the  trodden  clod?  I  own 
myself  partial  to  such  proofs  of  those  awful  and  impor- 
tant reahties:  a  God  that  made  all  things,  man's 
immaterial  and  immortal  nature,  and  a  world  of  weal 
or  woe  beyond  death  and  the  grave." 

15  Force  and  fineness  of  understanding  are  often 
spoken  of  as  something  different  from  general  force 
and  fineness  of  nature,  as  something  partly  inde- 
pendent of  them.  The  necessities  of  language  so 
require  it;  but  in  truth  these  qualities  are  not  dis- 

20  tinct  and  independent :  except  in  special  cases,  and 
from  special  causes,  they  ever  go  together.  A 
man  of  strong  understanding  is  generally  a  man  of 
strong  character;  neither  is  delicacy  in  the  one 
kind   often  divided  from  delicacy    in  the  other. 

25  No  one,  at  all  events,  is  ignorant  that  in  the 
Poetry  of  Burns  keenness  of  insight  keeps  pace  with 
keemiess  of  feeling ;  that  his  light  is  not  more  per- 
vading than  his  luarmth.  He  is  a  man  of  the 
most  imi^assioned  temper ;  with  passions  not  strong 

30  only,  but  noble,  and  of  the  sort  in  which  great 
virtues  and  great  poems  take  their  rise.  It  is 
reverence,   it   is    love    towards    all    Nature    that 


H  CARIiYLE'S 

inspires  him,  that  opens  his  eyes  to  its  beauty,  and 
makes  heart  and  voice  eloquent  in  its  praise.  There 
is  a  true  old  saying,  that  "Love  furthers  knowl- 
edge:" but  above  all,  it  is  the  living  essence  of 
that  knowledge  which  makes  poets ;  the  first  prin-  5 
ci]Ae  of  its  existence,  increase,  activity.  Of  Burns's 
fervid  affection,  his  generous  all-embracing  Love, 
we  have  spoken  already,  as  of  the  grand  distinc- 
tion of  his  nature,  seen  equally  in  word  and  deed, 
in  his  Life  and  in  his  "Writings.  It  were  easy  to  lO 
multiply  examples.  Not  man  only,  but  all  that 
environs  man  in  the  material  and  moral  universe, 
is  lovely  in  his  sight:  "the  hoary  hawthorn,"  the 
"troop  of  gi*ay  plover,"  the  "solitary  curlew,"  ali 
are  dear  to  him ;  all  live  in  this  Earth  along  Avith  is 
him,  and  to  all  he  is  knit  as  in  mysterious  brother- 
hood. How  touching  is  it,  for  instance,  that, 
amidst  the  gloom  of  personal  misery,  brooding 
over  the  wintry  desolation  without  him  and  within 
him,  he  thinks  of  the  "om'ie  cattle"  and  "silly  20 
sheep,"  and  their  sufferings  in  the  pitiless  storm! 

I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheei^,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

O'  wintry  war, 
Or  thro'  the  drift,  deep-lairing,  sprattle,  25 

Beneath  a  scaur. 
Ilk  happing  bird,  wee  helpless  thing, 
That  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

Wliat  comes  o'  thee?  80 

Where  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittering  wing, 

And  close  thy  ee? 


BURNS  75 

The  tenant  of  the  mean  hut,  with  its  "ragged 
roof  and  chinky  wall,"  has  a  lieart  to  pity  even 
these!  This  is  worth  several  homilies  on  Mercy; 
for  it  is  the  voice  of  Mercy  herself.  Burns,  indeed. 
5  lives  in  sympathy;  his  soul  rushes  forth  into  all 
realms  of  being;  nothing  that  has  existence  can  be 
indifferent  to  him.  The  very  Devil  he  cannot 
hate  with  right  orthodoxy : 

But  fare  you  weel,,auld  Nickie-ben; 
'('  O,  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  and  men' ! 

Ye  aiblins  might, — I  dinna  ken, — 

Still  hae  a  stake; 
I'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den, 

Even  for  your  sake ! 

15  *'  'He  is  the  father  of  curses  and  lies,'  said  Dr, 
Slop;  'and  is  cursed  and  damned  already.' — 'I  am 
sorry  for  it,'  quoth  my  uncle  Toby!" — A  Poet 
without  Love  were  a  physical  and  metaphysical 
impossibility. 

20  But  has  it  not  been  said,  in  contradiction  to  this 
principle,  that  "Indignation  makes  verses"?  It 
has  been  so  said,  and  is  true  enough :  but  the  con- 
tradiction is  apparent,  not  real.  The  Indignation 
which    makes    verses    is,    properly     speaking,   an 

«  inverted  Love;  the  love  of  some  right,  some  worth, 
some  goodness,  belonging  to  ourselves  or  others, 
which  has  been  injured,  and  which  this  tempes- 
tuous feeling  issues  forth  to  defend  and  avenge. 
Xo  selfish  fury  of  heart,  existing  there  as  a  primary 

•«  feeling,  and  without  its  opposite,  -ever  produced 


76  CARLYLE'S 

much  Poetry:  otherwise,  we  suppose,  the  Tiger 
were  the  most  musical  of  all  our  choristers. 
Johnson  said  he  loved  a  good  hater ;  by  which  he 
must  have  meant,  not  so  much  one  that  hated 
violently,  as  one  that  hated  wisely ;  hated  baseness  5 
from  love  of  nobleness.  However,  in  spite  of 
Johnson's  paradox,  tolerable  enough  for  once  in 
speech,  but  which  need  not  have  been  so  often 
adopted  in  print  since  then,  we  rather  believe  tbat 
good  men  deal  sparingly  in  hatred,  either  wise  or  10 
unwise:  nay,  that  a  "good"  hater  is  still  a 
desideratum  in  this  world.  The  Devil,  at  least, 
who  passes  for  the  chief  and  best  of  that  class,  is 
said  to  be  nowise  an  amiable  character. 

Of  the  verses  which  Indignation  makes.  Burns  is 
has  also  given  us  specimens :  and  among  the  best 
that  were  ever  given.  Who  will  forget  his 
''^Diveller  in  yon  Dungeon  dark;''''  a  i^iece  that 
might  have  been  chanted  by  the  Furies  of 
^schylus?  The  secrets  of  the  infernal  Pit  are  !» 
laid  bare;  a  boundless,  baleful  "darkness  visible;" 
and  streaks  of  hell-fire  quivering  madly  in  its  black 
haggard  bosom ! 

Dweller  in  yon  Dungeon  dark, 

Hangman  of  Creation,  mark!  26 

Who  in  widow's  weeds  appears, 

Laden  with  unhonoured  years, 

Noosing  with  care  a  bursting  purse. 

Baited  with  many  a  deadly  curse? 

Why  should  we  speak  of  '^ Scots  ivha  hue  wP  30_ 


BURNS  77 

Wallace  lied;''''  since  all  know  of  it,  from  the  king 
to  the  meanest  of  his  subjects?  This  dithyrambic 
was  composed  on  horseback;  in  riding  in  the 
middle  of  tempests,  over  the  wildest  Galloway 
6  moor,  in  company  with  a  Mr.  Syme,  who,  observing 
the  poet's  looks,  forbore  to  speak, — judiciously 
enough,  for  a  man  composing  Bruce'' s  Address 
might  be  unsafe  to  trifle  with.  Doubtless  this 
stern   hymn  was  singing  itself,  as  he  formed  it, 

10  through  the  soul  of  Burns :  but  to  the  external  ear, 
it  should  be  sung  with  the  throat  of  the  whirlwind. 
So  long  as  there  is  warm  blood  in  the  heart  of 
Scotchman  or  man,  it  will  move  in  fierce  thrills 
under  this  war-ode ;  the  best,  we  believe,  that  was 

15  ever  ^\Titten  by  any  pen. 

Another  wild  stormful  Song,  that  dwells  in  our 
ear   and  mind  with  a  strange  tenacity,   is    Mac-    -~^ 
pherson''s  Fareivell.     Perhaps  there  is  something  in 
^^^^..^he  tradition  itself  that  cooperates.     For  was  not 

20  this  grim  Celt,  this  shaggy  Northland  Cacus,  that 
"lived  a  life  of  sturt  and  strife,  and  died  by 
treacherie," — was  not  he  too  one  of  the  Nimrods 
and  Napoleons  of  the  earth,  in  the  arena  of  his 
own  remote  misty  glens,  for  want  of  a  clearer  and 

25  wider  one?  Nay,  was  there  not  a  touch  of  gi-ace 
given  him?  A  fibre  of  love  and  softness,  of  poetry 
itself,  must  have  lived  in  his  savage  heart :  for  he 
composed  that  air  the  night  before  his  execution ; 
on  the  wings  of  that  poor  melody  his  better  soul 

30  would  soar  away  above  oblivion,  pain,  and  all  the 


78  CARLYLE'S 

ignominy  and  despair,  which,  like  an  avalanche, 
was  hurling  him  to  the  abyss!  Here  also,  as  at 
Thebes,  and  in  Pelops'  line,  was  material  Fate 
matched  against  man's  Free-will;  matched  in 
bitterest  though  obscure  duel ;  and  the  ethereal  soul  > 
sank  not,  even  in  its  blindness,  without  a  cry 
which  has  survived  it.  But  who,  except  Burns, 
could  have  given  words  to  such  a  soul ;  words  that 
we  never  listen  to  without  a  strange  half -barbarous, 
half-poetic  fellow-feeling?  lo 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly^ 

Sae  dauntincjly  gaed  he; 
He  play'd  a  spring,  and  danced  it  rounds 

Below  the  gallows-tree. 

Under  a  lighter  disguise,  the  same  principle  of  i5 
Love,  which  we  have  recognized  as  the  great  char- 
acteristic of  Burns,  and  of  all  true  poets,  occasion- 
ally manifests  itself  in  the  shape  of  Humour. 
Everywhere,  indeed,  in  his  sunny  moods,  a  full 
buoyant  flood  of  mirth  rolls  through  the  mind  of  a. 
Burns;  he  rises  to  the  high,  and  stoops  to  the  low, 
and  is  brother  and  playmate  to  all  Nature.  We 
speak  not  of  his  bold  and  often  irresistible  faculty 
of  caricature;  for  this  is  Drollery  rather  than 
Humour :  but  a  much  tenderer  sportf ulness  dwells  25 
in  him;  and  comes  forth  here  and  there,  in 
evanescent  and  beautiful  touches;  as  in  his  Addrefis 
to  the  Mouse,  or  the  Farmer 's  Mare,  or  in  his 
Elegy  on  poor  Mailie,  which  last  may  be  reckoned 
his  happiest  effort  of  this  kind.     In  these  pieces  30 


BURNS  79 

there  are  traits  of  a  Humour  as  fine  as  that  of 
Sterne;' yet  altogether  different,  original,  peculiar, 
— the  Humour  of  Burns. 

Of  the  tenderness,  the  jilayful  pathos,  and  many 

5  other  kindred  qualities  of  Burns 's  Poetry,  much 
more  might  be  said ;  but  now,  with  these  poor  out- 
lines of  a  sketch,  we  must  prepare  to  quit  this  part 
of  our  subject.  To  speak  of  his  individual  Writ- 
ings, adequately  and  with  any  detail,  would  lead  us 

10  far  beyond  our  limits.  As  already  hinted,  we  can 
look  on  but  few  of  these  pieces  as,  in  strict  critical 
language,  deserving  the  name  of  Poems :  they  are 
rhymed  eloquence,  rhymed  pathos,  rhymed  sense; 
yet  seldom  essentially  melodious,  aerial,  poetical. 

15  Tamo'  Shan  feritseli,  which  enjoys  so  high  a  favour, 
does  not  appear  to  us  at  all  decisively  to  come  under 
this  last  category.  It  is  not  so  much  a  poem,  as  a 
piece  of  sparkling  rhetoric ;  the  heart  and  body  of 
the  story  still  lies  hard  and  dead.     He  has  not  gone 

20  back,  much  less  cai'ried  us  back,  into  that  dark, 
earnest,  wondering  age,  when  the  tradition  was 
believed,  and  when  it  took  its  rise;  he  does  not 
attempt,  by  any  new-modeling  of  his  supernatural 
ware,  to  strike  anew  that  deep,  mysterious  chord  of 

25  human  nature,  which  once  responded  to  such 
things ;  and  which  lives  in  us  too,  and  will  forever 
live,  though  silent  now,  or  vibrating  with  far  other 
notes,  and  to  far  different  issues.  Our  German 
readers  will  understand  us,  when  we  say  that  he  ia 

30  not   the    Tieck    but    the  Musiius    of    this    tale. 


80  CARLYLE'S 

Externally  it  is  all  gi-een  and  11  rmg;  yet  looli 
closer,  it  is  no  firm  growth,  bat  only  ivy  on  a  rock. 
The  piece  does  not  properly  cohere:  the  strange 
chasm  which  yawns  in  onr  incredulous  imaginations 
between  the  A}t  public-house  and  the  gate  of  a 
Tophet,  is  nowhere  bridged  over,  nay,  the  idea  of 
such  a  bridge  is  laughed  at ;  and  thus  the  Tragedy 
of  the  adventure  becomes  a  mere  di'unken  phan- 
tasmagoria, or  many-coloured  spectrum  painted  on 
ale-vapours,  and  the  Farce  alone  has  any  reality,  id 
"We  do  not  say  that  Burns  should  have  made  much 
more  of  this  tradition ;  we  rather  think  that,  for 
strictly  poetical  purposes,  not  much  was  to  be  made 
of  it.  Neither  are  we  blind  to  the  deep,  varied, 
genial  power  displayed  in  what  he  has  actually  is 
accomplished;  but  we  find  far  more  "Shakspear- 
ean"  qualities,  as  these  of  Tarn  d'  Shanter  have 
been  fondly  named,  in  many  of  his  other  pieces ; 
nay,  we  incline  to  believe  that  this  latter  might 
have  been  "written,  all  but  quite  as  well,  by  a  man  20 
who,  in  place  of  genius,  had  only  possessed  talent. 
Perhaps  we  may  venture  to  say,  that  the  most 
strictly  poetical  of  all  his  "poems"  is  one  which 
does  not  appear  in  Currie's  Edition ;  but  has  been 
often  printed  before  and  since,  under  the  humble  25 
title  of  The  Jolly  Beggars.  The  subject  truly  is 
among  the  lowest  in  Nature ;  but  it  only  the  more 
shows  our  Poet's  gift  in  raising  it  into  the  domain 
of  Art.  To  our  minds,  this  piece  seema  thoroughly 
compacted;  melted  together,  refined;  and  poured  ao 


"  BURNS  81 

forth  in  one  flood  of  true  liquid  harmony.  It  is 
light,  airy,  soft  of  movement;  yet  sharp  and 
precise  in  its  details ;  every  face  is  a  portrait :  that 
raucle  carlin,  that  tvee  AjJoUOy  that  So7i  of  Mars, 

5  are  Scottish,  yet  ideal;  the  scene  is  at  once  a 
dream,  and  the  very  Ragcastle  of  "Poosie-Xausie.  " 
Farther,  it  seems  in  a  considerable  degi-ee  com- 
plete, a  real  self-supporting  Whole,  which  is  the 
highest   merit   in  a  poem.      The  blanket  of  the 

10  Night  is  di'awn  asunder  for  a  moment;  in  full, 
ruddy,  flaming  light,  these  rou5"^\  tatterdemalions 
are  seen  in  their  boisterous  revel ;  for  the  strong 
pulse  of  Life  vindicates  its  right  to  gladness  even 
here;  and  when  the  curtain  closes,  we  prolong  the 

15  action,  without  effort;  the  next  day  as  the  last,  our 
Caird  and  our  Balladmonger  are  singing  and 
soldiering;  their  "brats  and  callets"  are  hawking, 
begging,  cheating;  and  some  other  night,  in  new 
combinations,  they  will  wring  from  Fate  another 

20  hour  of  Avassail  and  good  cheer.  Apart  fi'om  the 
universal  sympathy  with  man  which  this  again 
bespeaks  in  Burns,  a  genuine  inspirr.'oion  and  no 
inconsiderable  technical  talent  are  manifested  here. 
There  is  the  fidelity,   humour,    warm   life,    and 

25  accurate  painting  and  grouping  of  some  Teniers, 
for  whom  hostlers  and  carousing  peasants  are  not 
without  significance.  It  would  be  strange,  doubt- 
less, to  call  this  the  best  of  Burns 's  writings :  we 
mean  to  say  only  that  it  seems  to  us  the  most  per- 

30  feet  of  its  kind,  as  a  piece  of  poetical  composition. 


82  CARLYLE'S 

strictly  so  called.  In  the  Beggars^  Opera.,  in  the 
Beggars''  Bush,  as  other  critics  have  already 
remarked,  there  is  nothing  which,  in  real  poetic 
vigour,  equals  this  Cantata;  nothing,  as  we  think, 
which  comes  within  many  degi'ees  of  it.  5 

But  by  far  the  most  finished,  complete,  and  truly 
insi)ired  pieces  of  Burns  are,  without  dispute,  to  be 
found  among  his' Songs.  It  is  here  that,  although 
through  a  small  aperture,  his  light  shines  with 
least  obstruction;  in  its  highest  beauty  and  pure  lo 
sunny  clearness.  The  reason  may  be,  that  Song  is 
a  brief,  simple  species  of  composition ;  and  requires 
nothing  so  much  for  its  perfection  as  genuine 
poetic  feeling,  genuine  music  of  heai't.  Yet  the 
Song  has  its  rules  equally  with  the  Tragedy ;  rules  15 
which  in  most  cases  are  poorly  fulfilled,  in  many 
cases  are  not  so  much  as  felt.  We  might  write  a 
long  essay  on  the  Songs  of  Burns;  which  we 
reckon  by  far  the  best  that  Britain  has  yet  pro- 
duced :  for  indeed,  since  the  era  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  2c 
we  know  not  that,  by  any  other  hand,  aught  truly 
worth  attention  has  been  accomplished  in  this 
department.  True,  we  have  songs  enough  "by 
persons  of  quality;"  we  have  tawdry,  hollow,  wine- 
bred  madi'igals;  many  a  rhymed  speech  "in  the  25 
flowing  and  watery  vein  of  Ossorius  the  Portugal 
Bishop,"  rich  in  sonorous  words,  and,  for  moral, 
dashed  perhaps  with  some  tint  of  a  sentimental 
sensuality ;  all  which  many  persons  cease  not  from 


BURNS  83 

endeavouring  to  sing;  though  for  most  part,  we 
fear,  the  music  is  but  from  the  throat  outwards, 
or  at  best  from  some  region  far  enough  short  of  the 
Sold;  not  in  Avhich,  but  in  a  certain  inane  Limbo 
5  of  the  Fancy,  or  even  in  some  vaporous  debatable- 
land  on  the  outsku'ts  of  the  Nervous  System,  most 
of  such  madi'igals  and  rhymed  speeches  seem  to 
have  originated. 

Witli  the  Songs  of  Burns  we  must  not  name 

10  these  things.  Independently  of  the  clear,  manly, 
heartfelt  sentiment  that  ever  pervades  his  poetry, 
his  Songs  are  honest  in  another  point  of  view :  in 
form,  as  well  as  in  spirit.  They  do  not  affect  io  be 
set  to  music,  but  they  actually  and  in  themselves 

15  are  music;  they  have  received  their  life,  and  fash- 
ioned themselves  together,  in  the  medium  of  Har- 
mony, as  Yenus  rose  from  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 
The  story,  the  feeling,  is  not  detailed,  Init  sug- 
gested;   not  said,  or  spouted,   in  rhetorical  com- 

20  pleteness  and  coherence;  but  s?/;?//,  in  fitful  gushes, 
in  glowing  hints,  in  fantastic  breaks,  in  toarhlings 
not  of  the  voice  only,  but  of  the  whole  mind.  We 
consider  this  to  be  the  essence  of  a  song;  and  that 
no  songs  since  the  little  careless  catches,  and  as  it 

25  were  drops  of  song,  which  Shakspeare  has  here 
and  there  sprinkled  over  his  inlays,  fulfil  this  con- 
dition in  nearly  the  same  degree  as  most  of  Burns 's 
do.  Such  grace  and  truth  of  external  movement, 
too,  presupposes   'u\  general  a  corresponding  force 

30  and  truth  of  sentiment  and  inwai'd  meaning.     The 


84  CARLYLE'S 

songs  of  Burns  are  not  more  perfect  in  the  former 
quality  than  in  the  latter.  With  what  tenderness 
he  sings,  yet  with  what  yehemence  and  entireness ! 
There  is  a  piercing  Avail  in  his  sorrow,  the  purest 
rapture  in  his  Joy;  he  burns  with  the  sternest  ire,  5 
or  laughs  with  the  loudest  or  slyest  mirth ;  and  yet 
he  is  sweet  and  soft,  "sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond 
lovers  meet,  and  soft  as  their  parting  tear."  If 
we  farther  take  into  account  the  immense  variety 
of  his  subjects ;  how,  from  the  loud  flowing  revel  lo 
in  ''Willie  brew'' d  a  P  ech  o'  Maut,'"  io  the  still, 
rapt  enthusiasm  of  sadness  for  Mary  in  Heaven; 
from  the  glad  kind  gi'eeting  of  Auld  Langsyne^  or 
the  comic  archness  of  Duncan  Gray,  to  the  fire- 
eyed  fury  of  ""Scots  icha  hae  wi''  Wallace  hied,''''  he  15 
has  found  a  tone  and  words  for  every  mood  of 
man's  heart, — it  Avill  seem  small  praise  if  we  rank 
him  as  the  first  of  all  our  Song-Avriters ;  for  we 
know  not  where  to  find  one  worthy  of  being 
second  to  him.  20 

It  is  on  his  Songs,  as  we  believe,  that  Burns 's 
chief  influence  as  an  author  will  ultimately  be 
found  to  depend:  nor,  if  our  Fletcher's  aphorism 
is  true,  shall  we  account  this  a  small  influence. 
"Let  me  make  the  songs  of  a  people,"  said  he,  2a 
"and  you  shall  make  its  laws. ' '  Surely,  if  ever  any 
Poet  might  have  equaled  himself  with  Legislators 
on  this  ground,  it  was  Burns.  His  Songs  are 
already  part  of  the  mother-tongue,  not  of  Scotland 
only  but  of  Britain,  and  of  the  millions  that  in  all  30 


BURNS  85 

ends  of  the  earth  speak  a  British  language.  In 
hut  and  hall,  as  the  heart  unfolds  itself  in  many- 
coloured  Joy  and  woe  of  existence,  tlie  name,  the 
voice  of  that  joy  and  that  woe,  is  the  name  and 

5  voice  which  Burns  has  given  them.  Strictly  speak- 
ing, perhaps  no  British  man  has  so  deeply  affected 
the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  so  many  men,  as  this 
solitary  and  altogether  private  individual,  with 
means  apparently  the  humblest. 

10  In  another  point  of  view,  moreover,  we  incline 
to  think  that  Burns 's  influence  may  have  been 
considerable :  we  mean,  as  exerted  specially  on  the 
Literature  of  his  country,  at  least  on  the  Litera- 
tiu-e  of  Scotland.     Among  the  great  changes  which 

15  British,  particularly  Scottish,  literature  has  under- 
gone since  that  period,  one  of  the  gi'eatest  will  be 
found  to  consist  in  its  remarkable  increase  of 
nationality.  Even  the  English  writers,  most 
popular  in  Burns 's  time,  were  little  distinguished 

20  for  their  literary  patriotism,  in  this  its  best  sense. 
A  certain  attenuated  cosmopolitanism  had,  in 
good  measure,  taken  place  of  the  old  insular  home- 
feeling;  literature  was,  as  it  were,  without  any 
local  environment ;  was  not  nourished  by  the  affec- 

25  tions  which  spring  from  a  native  soil.  Our  Grays 
and  Glovers  seemed  to  write  almost  as  if  in  vacuo; 
the  thing  written  bears  no  mark  of  place ;  it  is  not 
written  so  much  for  Englishmen,  as  for  men;  or 
rather,  which  is  the  inevitable  result  of  this,  for 

30  certain  Generalizations  which  philosophy   termed 


86  CARLYLE'S 

men.  Goldsmith  is  an  exception:  not  so  Johnson ; 
the  scene  of  his  Rambler  is  little  more  English 
than  that  of  his  Rasselas. 

Bat  if  such  v/as,  in  some  degree,  the  case  with 
England,  it  was,  in  the  highest  degi'ee,  the  case  * 
with  Scotland.  In  fact,  our  Scottish  literature 
had,  at  that  period,  a  yery  singular  aspect ;  unex- 
ampled, so  far  as  we  know,  except  perhaps  at 
Geneva,  where  the  same  state  of  matters  appears 
still  to  continue.  For  a  long  period  after  Scotland  a 
became  British,  we  had  no  literature :  at  the  date 
when  Addison  and  Steele  were  -sn-iting  their 
Spectators,  our  good  John  Boston  was  waiting, 
with  the  noblest  intent,  but  alike  in  defiance  of 
gi'ammar  and  philosophy,  his  Fourfold  State  of  15 
Man.  Tnen  came  the  schisms  in  our  National 
Church,  and  the  fiercer  schisms  in  our  Body 
Politic:  Theologic  ink,  and  Jacobite  blood,  Avitli 
gall  enough  in  both  cases,  seemed  to  have  blotted 
out  the  intellect  of  the  country :  however,  it  was  20 
only  obscured,  not  obliterated.  Lord  Kames  made 
nearly  the  first  attempt,  and  a  tolerably  clumsy  one, 
at  writing  English ;  and  ere  long,  Hume,  Robert- 
son, Smith,  and  a  whole  host  of  followers,  attracted 
hither  the  eyes  of  all  Europe.  And  yet  in  this  25 
brilliant  resuscitation  of  our  "fervid  genius,"  there 
was  nothing  truly  Scottish,  nothing  indigenous; 
except,  perhaps,  the  natural  impetuosity  of  intel- 
lect, which  we  sometimes  claim,  and  are  sometimes 
upbraided  with,  as  a  characteristic  of  our  nation,  ro 


BURNS  «7 

It  is  oiirious  to  remark  that  Scotland,  so  full  of 
wi'iters,  had  no  Scottish  culture,  nor  indeed  any- 
English;  our  culture  was  almost  exclusively 
French.     It  was  by  studying  Racine  and  Voltaire, 

5  Batteux  and  Boileau,  that  Karnes  had  trained 
himself  to  be  a  critic  and  philosopher;  it  was  the 
light  of  Montesquieu  and  Mably  that  guided 
Robertson  in  his  political  speculations ;  Quesnay's 
lamp   that  kindled  the  lamp    of    Adam    Smith. 

10  Hume  was  too  rich  a  man  to  borrow ;  and  perhaps 
he  reacted  on  the  French  more  than  he  was  acted 
on  by  them :  but  neither  had  he  aught  to  do  with 
Scotland;  Edinburgh,  equally  with  La  Fleche,  was 
but  the  lodging  and  laboratory,  in  which  he  not  so 

(6  much  morally  lived,  as  metaphysically  investi- 
gated. Xever,  perhaps,  was  there  a  class  of  wi'iters 
so  clear  and  well-ordered,  yet  so  totally  destitute, 
to  all  appearance,  of  any  patriotic  affection,  nay, 
of  any  human  affection  whatever.      The  French 

eo  wits  of  the  period  were  as  unpatriotic :  but  their 
general  deficiency  in  moral  principle,  not  to  say 
their  avowed  sensuality  and  unbelief  in  all  virtue, 
strictly  so  called,  render  this  accountable  enough. 
"We  hope  there  is  a  patriotism  founded  on  some- 

25  thing  better  than  jorejudice;  that  our  country  may 
be  dear  to  us,  without  injury  to  our  philosophy; 
that  in  loving  and  justly  prizing  all  other  lands, 
we  may  prize  justly,  and  yet  love  before  all  others, 
our   own    stern    ]\Iotherland,   and    the    venerable 

30  Structure  of  social  and  moral  Life,  which  Mind 


88  CARLYLE'S 

has  through  long  agee  been  building  up  for  ns 
there.  Surely  there  is  nourishment  for  the  better 
part  of  man's  heart  in  all  this:  surely  the  roots 
that  have  fixed  themselves  in  the  very  core  of 
man's  being,  may  be  so  cultivated  as  to  gi'ow  up  a 
not  into  briers,  but  into  roses,  in  the  field  of  his 
life !  Our  Scottish  sages  have  no  such  propensities : 
tlie  field  of  their  life  shows  neither  briers  nor  roses ; 
but  only  a  flat,  continuous  thrashing-floor  for 
Logic,  whereon  all  questions,  from  the  "Doctrine  lo 
of  Rent"  to  the  "Natural  History  of  Religion,"  are 
thrashed  and  sifted  with  the  same  mechanical 
impartiality ! 

With  Sir  Walter  Scott  at  the  head  of  our  litera- 
ture, it  cannot  be  denied  that  much  of  tliis  evil  is  is 
past,  or  rapidly  passing  away:  our  chief  literary 
men,  whatever  other  faults  they  may  have,  no 
longer  live  among  us  like  a  French  Colony,  or  some 
knot  of  Propaganda  Missionaries;  but  like 
natural-born  subjects  of  the  soil,  partaking  and  20 
sympathizing  in  all  our  attachments,  humours,  and 
liabits.  Our  literature  no  longer  gi'ows  in  water 
Imt  in  mould,  and  with  the  true  racy  virtues  of 
the  soil  and  climate.  How  much  of  this  change 
may  be  due  to  Burns,  or  to  any  other  individual,  it  25 
might  be  difficult  to  estimate.  Direct  literary 
imitation  of  l^urns  was  not  to  be  looked  for.  But 
his  example,  in  the  fearless  adoption  of  domestic 
subjects,  could  not  but  operate  from  afar;  and 
certainly  in  no  heart  did  the  love  of  country  ever  30 


BURNS  89 

burn  with  a  warmer  glow  than  in  that  of  Burns : 
"a  tide  of  Scottish  prejudice,"  as  he  modestly 
calls  this  deep  and  generous  feeling,  "had  been 
poured  along  his  veins ;  and  he  felt  that  it  would 
6  boil  there  till  the  flood-gates  shut  in  eternal  rest." 
It  seemed  to  him,  as  if  he  could  do  so  little  for  his 
country,  and  yet  would  so  gladly  have  done  all. 
One  small  province  stood  open  for  him, — that  of 
Scottish  Song;  and  how  eagerly  he  entered  on  it, 

10  how  devotedly  he  laboured  there !  In  his  toilsome 
journeyings,  this  object  never  quits  him ;  it  is  the 
little  happy-valley  of  his  careworn  heart.  In  the 
gloom  of  his  own  affliction,  he  eagerly  searches  after 
some  lonely  brother  of  the  muse,  and  rejoices  to 

15  snatch  one  other  name  from  tlie  oblivion  that  was 
covering  it!  These  were  early  feelings,  and  they 
abode  with  him  to  the  end : 

...  A  wish  (I  mind  its  power), 

A  wish,  that  to  my  latest  hour 
20  Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast, — 

That  I,  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake, 

Some  usefu'  plan  or  book  could  make, 

Or  sing  a  sang  at  least. 

The  rough  bur-thistle,  spreading  wide 
25  Amang  the  bearded  bear, 

I  turn'd  my  weeding-clips  a.side. 
And  spared  the  symbol  dear. 

But   to   leave   the   mere  literary    character    of 
Burns,  which  has  already  detained  us  too  long,  i 
30  Far  more  interesting    than   any    of    his    written 
works,  as  it  appears  to  us,  are  his  acted  ones:  the 

u 


90  CARLYLE'S 

Life  he  willed  and  was  fated  to  lead  among  his 
fellow-men.  These  Poems  are  but  like  little 
rhymed  fragments  scattered  here  and  there  in  the 
grand  unrhymed  Eomance  of  his  earthly  existence ; 
and  it  is  only  when  intercalated  in  this  at  their  & 
proper  places,  that  they  attain  their  full  measure  of 
significance.  And  this  too,  alas,  was  but  a 
fragment !  The  plan  of  a  mighty  edifice  had  been 
sketched;  some  columns,  porticos,  firm  masses  of 
building,  stand  completed;  the  rest  more  or  less  i'^ 
clearly  indicated ;  with  many  a  far -stretching  tend- 
ency, which  only  studious  and  friendly  eyes  can 
now  trace  towards  the  purposed  termination.  For 
the  work  is  broken  off  in  the  middle,  almost  in 
the  beginning;  and  rises  among  us,  beautiful  and  is 
sad,  at  once  unfinished  and  a  ruin !  If  charitable 
judgment  was  necessary  in  estimating  his  Poems, 
and  justice  required  that  the  aim  and  the  manifest 
power  to  fulfil  it  must  often  be  accejited  for  the 
fulfilment;  much  more  is  this  the  case  in  regard  to  20 
his  Life,  the  sum  and  result  of  all  his  endeavours, 
where  his  difficulties  came  upon  him  not  in  detail 
only,  but  in  niixss;  and  so  much  has  been  left 
unaccomplished,  nay,  was  mistaken,  and  altogether 
marred.  25 

Properly  speaking,  there  is  but  one  era  in  the 
life  of  Burns,  and  that  the  earliest.  We  have  not 
youth  and  manhood,  nut  only  youth:  for  to  the 
end,  we  discern  no  decisive  change  in  the  com- 
plexion  of   his    character;    in   his    thirty-seventh  ao 


BURNS  91 

year,  he  is  still,  as  it  were,  in  youth.  With  ali 
that  resoluteness  of  judgment,  that  penetrating 
insight,  and  singnlai*  maturity  of  intellectual  jjower, 
exhibited  in  his  waitings,  he  never  attains  to  any 

5  clearness  regarding  himself;  to  the  last,  he  never 
ascertains  his  peculiar  aim,  even  with  such  distinct- 
ness as  is  common  among  ordinary  men ;  and  there- 
fore never  can  pm'sue  it  with  that  singleness  of  will, 
which   insm'es  success  and  some  contentment  to 

10  such  men.  To  the  last,  he  wavers  between  two 
purposes :  glorying  in  his  talent,  like  a  true  poet,  he 
yet  cannot  consent  to  make  this  his  chief  and  sole 
glory,  and  to  follow  it  as  the  one  thing  needful, 
through  poverty  or  riches,  through  good  or  evil 

15  report.  Another  far  meaner  ambition  still  cleaves 
to  him ;  he  must  di'eam  and  struggle  about  a  cer- 
tain "Rock  of  Independence";  which,  natural  and 
even  admirable  as  it  might  be,  was  still  but  a  war- 
ring with  the  world,  on  the  comparatively  insig- 

20  nificant  ground  of  his  being  more  completely  or  less 
completely  suj^iilied  with  money  than  others ;  of 
his  standing  at  a  higher  or  at  a  lower  altitude  in 
general  estimation  than  others.  For  the  world 
still  appears  to  him,  as  to  the  young,  in  borrowed 

25  colours :  he  expects  from  it  what  it  cannot  give  to 
any  man ;  seeks  for  contentment,  not  within  him- 
self, in  action  and  wise  effort,  but  from  without, 
in  the  kindness  of  circumstances,  in  love,  friend- 
ship, honour,  pecuniary  ease.     He  would  be  happy, 

30  not  actively  and  in  himself,  but  passively  and  from 


92  CARLYLES 

some  ideal  cornucojoia  of  Enjoyments,  not  earned 
by  his  own  labour,  but  showered  on  him  by  the 
beneficence  of  Destiny,  Thus,  like  a  young  man, 
he  cannot  gird  himself  up  for  any  worthy  well- 
calculated  goal,  but  swerves  to  and  fro,  between  s 
passionate  hope  and  remorseful  disapjiointment : 
rushing  onwards  with  a  deep  temjjestuous  force, 
he  surmounts  or  breaks  asunder  many  a  barrier; 
travels,  nay,  advances  far,  but  advancing  only  under 
uncertain  guidance,  is  ever  and  anon  turned  fi'om  lo 
his  path ;  and  to  the  last  cannot  reach  the  only  true 
happiness  of  a  man,  that  of  cleai'  decided  Activity 
in  the  sphere  for  which,  by  nature  and  circum- 
stances, he  has  been  fitted  and  ajjpointed. 

We  do  not  say  these  things  in  disjDraise  of  is 
Burns ;  nay,  perhaps,  they  but  interest  us  the  more 
in  his  favour.  This  blessing  is  not  given  soonest  to 
the  best;  but  rather,  it  is  often  the  greatest  minds 
that  ai'e  latest  in  obtaining  it ;  for  where  most  is  to 
be  developed,  most  time  may  be  required  to  20 
develop  it.  A  complex  condition  had  been  assigned 
him  from  without;  as  complex  a  condition  from 
within:  no  "preestablished  harmony"  existed 
between  the  clay  soil  of  Mossgiel  and  the  empjTcan 
soul  of  Robert  Burns ;  it  was  not  wonderful  that  25 
the  adjustment  between  tliem  should  have  been 
long  postponed,  and  his  arm  long  cumbered,  and 
his  sight  confused,  in  so  vast  and  discordant  an 
economy  as  he  had  been  ai:>pointed  steward  over. 
Byron  was,  at  his  death,  but  a  year  younger  than  30 


BURNS  93 

Burns;  and  through  life,  as  it  might  have 
appeared,  far  more  simply  situated :  yet  in  him  too 
we  can  trace  no  such  adjustment,  no  such  moral 
manhood ;  but  at  best,  and  only  a  little  before  his 

5  end,  the  beginning  of  what  seemed  such. 

By  much  the  most  striking  incident  in  Burns 's 
Life  is  his  journey  to  Edinburgh ;  but  perhaps  a 
still  more  important  one  is  his  residence  at  Irvine, 
so  early  as  in  his  twenty-third  year.     Hitherto  his 

10  life  had  been  poor  and  toilworn;  but  otherwise  not 
ungenial,  and,  with  all  its  distresses,  by  no  means 
unhappy.  In  his  parentage,  deducting  outward 
cu'cumstances,  he  had  every  reason  to  reckon  him- 
self fortunate.     His  father  was  a  man  of  thought - 

15  ful,  intense,  earnest  character,  as  the  best  of  our 
peasants  are ;  valuing  knowledge,  possessing  some, 
and,  what  is  far  better  and  rarer,  open-minded  for 
more:  a  man  with  a  keen  insight  and  devout 
heart ;  reverent  towards  God,  fi-iendly  therefore  at 

20  once  and  fearless,  towards  all  that  God  has  made: 
in  one  word,  though  but  a  hard-handed  peasant,  a 
complete  and  fully  unfolded  Man.  Such  a  father 
is  seldom  found  in  any  rank  in  society ;  and  was 
worth  descending  far  in  society  to  seek.      Unfor- 

25  tunately,  he  was  very  poor;  had  he  been  even  a 
little  richer,  almost  never  so  little,  the  whole 
might  have  issued  far  otherwise.  Mighty  events 
turn  on  a  straw ;  the  crossing  of  a  brook  decides 
the   conquest  of  the    world.      Had   this   William 

80  Burns 's  small  seven  acres  of  nursery -gi-ound  any- 


M  CARLYLE'S 

wise  prospered,  the  boy  Eobevt  had  been  sent  to 
school ;  had  struggled  forward,  as  so  many  weaker 
men  do,  to  some  university;  come  forth  not  as  a 
rustic  wonder,  but  as  a  regular  well-trained  intel- 
lectual workman,  and  changed  the  whole  course  of  5 
British  Liter  at  m'e, — for  it  lay  in  him  to  have  done 
this!  But  the  nursery  did  not  prosper;  poverty 
sank  his  whole  family  below  the  help  of  even  our 
cheap  school -system :  Burns  remained  a  hard- 
worked  j)loughboy,  and  British  literature  took  its  lo 
own  course.  Nevertheless,  even  in  this  rugged 
scene  there  is  much  to  nourish  him.  If  he  di-udges, 
it  is  with  his  brother,  and  for  his  father  and 
mother,  whom  he  loves,  and  would  fain  shield 
from  want.  Wisdom  is  not  banished  fi'om  their  15 
poor  hearth,  nor  the  balm  of  natural  feeling:  the 
solemn  words,  "Xe^  us  ivorsMjJ  God,^^  are  heard 
there  from  a  priest-like  father ;  if  threatenings  of 
unjust  men  throw  mother  and  children  into  tears, 
these  are  tears  not  of  grief  only,  but  of  holiest  20 
affection ;  every  heai't  in  that  humble  gi'oup  feels 
itself  the  closer  knit  to  every  other ;  in  their  hard 
warfare  they  are  there  together,  a  "little  band  of 
brethren."  Neither  are  such  tears,  and  the  deep 
beauty  that  dwells  in  them,  their  only  portion.  25 
Light  visits  the  hearts  as  it  does  the  eyes  of  all  liv- 
ing: there  is  a  force,  too,  in  this  youth,  that 
enables  him  to  trample  on  misfortune;  nay,  to 
bind  it  under  his  feet  to  make  him  sport.  For  a 
bold,  warm,  buoyant  humour  of  character  has  been  30 


BURNS  95 

^iven  him ;  and  so  the  thick-coming  shapes  of  evil 
are  welcomed  with  a  gay,  friendly  irony,  and  in 
their  closest  pressure  he  bates  no  jot  of  heart  or 
hope,     Yagiie  yearnings  of  ambition  fail  not,  as  he 

5  gi'ows  np;  dreamy  fancies  hang  like  cloud-cities 
around  him ;  the  curtain  of  Existence  is  slowly  ris- 
ing, in  many-coloured  splendour  and  gloom :  and  the 
auroral  light  of  first  love  is  gilding  his  horizon,  and 
the  music  of  song  is  on  his  path ;  and  so  he  walks 

'0  in  glory  and  in  joy, 

Behind  his  plough,  upon  the  mountain  side. 

We  ourselves  know,  from  the  best  evidence,  that 
up  to  this  date  Burns  was  happy ;  nay,  that  he  was 
the  gayest,  brightest,  most    fantastic,  fascinating 

15  being  to  be  found  in  the  world ;  more  so  even  than 
he  afterwards  appeai'ed.  But  now,  at  this  early 
age,  he  quits  the  paternal  roof;  goes  forth  into 
looser,  louder,  more  exciting  society;  and  becomes 
initiated  in  those  dissipations,  those  vices,  which  a 

20  certain  class  of  philosophers  have  asserted  to  be  a 
natural  preparative  for  entering  on  active  life;  a 
kind  of  mud-bath,  in  which  the  youth  is,  as  it 
were,  necessitated  to  steep,  and,  we  suppose, 
cleanse  himself,  before  the  real  toga  of  Manhood 

25  can  be  laid  on  him.  We  shall  not  dispute  much 
with  this  class  of  philosophers;  we  hope  they  are 
mistaken :  for  Sin  and  Eemorse  so  easily  beset  us 
at  all  stages  of  life,  and  are  always  such  indifferent 
company,  that  it  seems   hard  we  should,  at  any 

30  stage,  be  forced  and  fated  not  only  to  meet  but  to 


96  CARLYLE'S 

yield  to  them,  and  even  serve  for  a  term  in  their 
leprous  armada.  We  hope  it  is  not  so.  Clear  we 
are,  at  all  events,  it  cannot  be  the  training  one 
receives  in  this  Devil's  service,  bnt  only  our 
determining  to  desert  from  it,  that  fits  us  for  true  3 
manly  Action.  We  become  men,  not  after  we 
have  been  dissipated,  and  disappointed  in  the  chase 
of  false  pleasure ;  but  after  Ave  have  ascertained,  in 
any  way,  what  impassable  barriers  hem  us  in 
through  this  life ;  how  mad  it  is  to  hope  for  con-  lo 
tentment  to  our  infinite  soul  from  the  gifts  of  this 
extremely  finite  world;  that  a  man  must  be 
sufficient  for  himself;  and  that  for  suffering  and 
enduring  there  is  no  remedy  but  striving  and  doing. 
Manhood  begins  when  we  have  in  any  way  made  i5 
truce  with  Necessity;  begins  even  when  we  have 
surrendered  to  Xecessity,  as  the  most  part  only  do ; 
but  begins  joyfully  and  hopefully  only  when  we  have 
reconciled  ourselves  to  Necessity ;  and  thus,  in  real- 
ity, triumphed  over  it,  and  felt  that  in  Necessity  we  20 
are  free.  Surely,  such  lessons  as  this  last,  which, 
in  one  shape  or  other,  is  the  grand  lesson  for  every 
mortal  man,  are  better  learned  from  the  lips  of  a 
devout  mother,  in  the  looks  and  actions  of  a  devout 
father,  while  the  heart  is  yet  soft  and  j^liant,  than  25 
in  collision  with  the  sharji  adamant  of  Fate,  attract- 
ing us  to  shipwTcck  us,  when  the  heart  is  grown 
hard,  and  may  be  broken  before  it  will  become 
contrite.  Had  Burns  continued  to  learn  this,  as 
he  was  already  learning  it,  in  his  father's  cottage,  30 


13URNS  97 

he  would  have  learned  it  fully,  wliich  he  never 
did;  and   been  saved  many  a  lasting  aberration, 
many  a  bitter  hour  and  year  of  remorseful  sorrow. 
It  seems  to  ns  another    circumstance  of  fatal 
5  imjDorfc  in  Burns 's  history,  that  at  this  time  too  he 
became  involved  in  the  religious  quarrels  of  his 
district ;  that  he  was  enlisted  and  feasted,  as  the 
fighting   man  of    the   New-Light   Priesthood,    in 
their  highly  unprofitable  warfai^e.     At  the  tables 
10  of  these  free-minded  clergy  he  learned  much  more 
than  was  needful  for  him.     Such  liberal  ridicule  of 
fanaticism  awakened  in  his    mind  scruples  about 
Religion   itself;    and  a   whole   world  of   Doubts, 
which  it  required  quite  another  set  of  conjurors 
15  tlian  these  men  to  exorcise.     We  do  not  say  that 
such  an  intellect  as  his  could  have  escaped  similar 
doubts  at  some  period  of  his  history ;  or  even  that 
he  could,   at  a  later  period,  have  come   through 
them  altogether  victorious  and  unharmed ;  but  it 
a)  seems  jieculiarly  unfortunate  that  this  time,  above 
all  others,  should  have  been  fixed  for  the  encounter. 
For  now,  with  princijiles  assailed  by  evil  example 
from  without,  by  "passions  raging  like  demons" 
from  within,  he  had  little  need  of  skeptical  mis- 
25  givings  to  whisjoer  treason  in  the  heat  of  the  battle, 
or  to  cut  off  his  retreat  if  he  were  already  defeated. 
He  loses  his  feeling  of  innocence;  his  mind  is  at 
variance  with  itself;    the  old  divinity  no  longer 
presides  there;  but  wild  Desires  and  wild  Repent- 
so  ance  alternately  oppress  him.      Ere  long,  too,  he 


?8  CARLYLE'S 

h.is  committed  himself  before  the  world;  his  char- 
acter for  sobriety,  dear  to  a  Scottish  peasant  as 
few  corrupted  worldlings  can  even  conceive,  is 
destroyed  in  the  eyes  of  men;  and  his  only  refuge 
consists  in  trying  to  disbelieve  his  guiltiness,  and  6 
is  but  a  refuge  of  lies.  The  blackest  desperation 
now  gathers  over  him,  broken  only  by  red  light- 
nings of  remorse.  The  whole  fabric  of  his  life  is 
blasted  asunder ;  for  now  not  only  his  character, 
but  his  personal  liberty,  is  to  be  lost;  men  and  lo 
Fortune  are  leagued  for  his  hurt;  "hungry  Ruin 
has  him  in  the  wind."  He  sees  no  escape  but  the 
saddest  of  all:  exile  from  his  loved  country,  to  a 
country  in  every  sense  inhospitable  and  abhorrent 
to  him.  "While  the  "gloomy  night  is  gathering  15 
fast, ' '  in  mental  storm  and  solitude,  as  well  as  in 
physical,  he  sings  his  wild  farewell  to  Scotland: 

Farewell,  my  friends;  farewell,  my  foes! 

My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those : 

Tlie  bursting  teai-s  my  lieart  declare;  20 

Adieu,  my  native  banks  of  AjaM 

Light  breaks  suddenly  in  on  him  in  floods;  but 
still  a  false  transitory  light,  and  no  real  sunshine. 
He  is  invited  to  Edinburgh;  hastens  thither  with 
anticipating  heart;  is  welcomed  as  in  a  triumph,  25 
and  with  universal  blandishment  and  acclamation; 
wliatever  is  wisest,  Avhatever  is  greatest  or  loveliest 
there,  gathers  round  him,  to  gaze  on  his  face,  to 
show  him  honour,  sympathy,  afl'ection.  Burns's 
aj)])earance  among  the  sages  and  nobles  of  Edin-  30 


BURNS  99 

burgh  must  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  singular 
phenomena  in  modern  Literature ;  almost  like  the 
appearance  of  some  Xapoleon  among  the  crowned 
sovereigns  of  modern  Politics.     For  it  is  nowise  as 

5  a  "mockery  king," set  there  by  favour,  transiently 
and  for  a  purpose,  that  he  vvill  let  himself  be 
treated;  still  less  is  he  a  mad  Eienzi,  whose  sudden 
elevation  turns  his  too  weak  head ;  but  he  stands 
there  on  his  own  basis;  cool,  unastonished,  holding 

10  his  equal  rank  from  Nature  herself ;  putting  forth 
no  claim  which  there  is  not  strength  in  him,  as 
well  as  about  him,  to  vindicate.  Mr.  Lockhart 
has  some  forcible  observations  on  this  point : 

"It  needs   no  effort  of  imagination,"  says  he,    "to 

15  conceive  what  the  sensations  of  an  isolated  set  of 
scholars  (almost  all  either  clergymen  or  professors) 
must  have  been  in  the  presence  of  this  big-boned,  black- 
browed,  brawny  stranger,  with  his  great  flashing  eyes, 
who,    having  forced  his  way  among  them    from   the 

20  plough-tail  at  a  single  stride,  manifested  in  the  whole 
strain  of  his  bearing  and  conversation  a  most  thorough 
conviction,  that  in  the  society  of  the  most  eminent 
men  of  his  nation  he  was  exactly  where  he  was  entitled 
to  be,   hardly  deigned   to  flatter  them  by  exhibiting 

25  even  an  occasional  symptom  of  being  flattered  by 
their  notice ;  by  turns  calmly  measured  himself  against 
the  most  cultivated  understandings  of  his  time  in 
discussion;  overpowered  the  bonsniots  of  the  most  cele- 
brated   convivialists  by    broad    floods  of    merriment, 

BO  impregnated  with  all  the  burning  life  of  genius; 
ttstounded  bosoms  habitually  enveloped  in  the  thrice- 
piled  folds  of  social  reserve,  by  compelling  them  to 
tremble, — nay,  to  tremble  visibly, — beneath  the  fear- 


100  CARLYLE'S 

less  touch  of  natural  pathos ;  and  all  this  without  indi- 
cating the  smallest  willingness  to  be  ranked  among 
those  professional  ministers  of  excitement,  who  are 
content  to  be  paid  in  money  and  smiles  for  doing  what 
the  spectators  and  auditors  would  be  ashamed  of  5 
doing  in  their  own  persons,  even  if  they  had  the  power 
of  doing  it;  and  last,  and  probably  worst  of  all,  who 
was  known  to  be  in  the  habit  of  enlivening  societies 
which  they  would  have  scorned  to  approach,  still  more 
frequently  than  their  own,  with  eloquence  no  less  10 
magnificent;  with  wit,  in  all  likelihood  still  more 
daring ;  often  enough,  as  the  superiors  whom  he  fronted 
without  alarm  might  have  guessed  from  the  begin- 
ning, and  had  ere  long  no  occasion  to  guess,  with 
wit  pointed  at  themselves."  15 

The  farther  we  remove  from  this  scene,  the  more 
singular  will  it  seem  to  us :  details  of  the  exterior 
aspect  of  it  are  already  full  of  interest.  Most 
readers  recollect  Mr.  "Walker's  personal  interviews 
with  Burns  as  among  the  best  passages  of  his  Nar-  20 
rative :  a  time  will  come  when  this  reminiscence  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott's,  slight  though  it  is,  will  also  be 
precious : 

"As  for  Burns,"  writes  Sir  Walter,  "I  may  truly 
say,  Virgilium  vidi  tuntiim.  I  was  a  lad  of  fifteen  in  25 
1786-7,  when  he  came  fii-st  to  Edinburgh,  but  had  sense 
and  feeling  enough  to  be  much  interested  in  his  poetry, 
and  would  have  given  the  world  to  know  him:  but  I 
had  very  little  acquaintance  with  any  literary  people, 
and  still  less  with  tlie  gentry  of  the  west  country;  30 
the  two  sets  that  he  most  frequented.  Mr.  Thomas 
Grierson  was  at  that  time  a  clerk  of  my  fatlier's.  He 
knew  Burns,  and  promised  to  ask  him  to  his  lodgings 


BURNS  101 

to  dinner;  but  had  no  opportunity  to  keep  his  word; 
otherwise  I  might  have  seen  more  of  this  distinguished 
man.  As  it  was,  I  saw  him  one  day  at  the  late  vener- 
able   Professor   Ferguson's,  where  there  were    several 

6  gentlemen  of  literary  reputation,  among  whom  I 
remember  the  celebrated  Mr.  Dugald  Stewart.  Of 
course,  we  youngsters  sat  silent,  looked,  and  listened. 
The  only  thing  I  remember  which  was  remarkable  in 
Burns' s  manner,  was  the  effect  produced  upon  him  by 

10  a  print  of  Bunbury's,  representing  a  soldier  lying  dead 
on  the  snow,  his  dog  sitting  in  misery  on  one  side, — on 
the  other,  his  widow,  with  a  child  in  her  arms.  These 
lines  were  written  beneath : 

"Cold  on  Canadian  hills,  or  Minden's  plain, 
i5  Perhaps  that  mother  wept  her  soldier  slain ; 

Bent  o'er  her  babe,  her  eye  dissolved  in  dew, — 
The  big  drops  mingling  with  f  he  milk  he  drew, 
Gave  the  sad  presage  of  his  future  years. 
The  child  of  misery,  baptized  in  tears." 

20  Burns  seemed  much  affected  by  the  print,  or  rather 
by  the  ideas  which  it  suggested  to  his  mind.  He 
actually  shed  tears.  He  asked  whose  the  lines  were ;  and 
it  chanced  that  nobody  but  myself  remembered  that 
they  occur  in  a   half -forgotten  poem  of  Langhorne's 

%  called  by  the  unpromising  title  of  'The  Justice  of 
Peace.'  I  whispered  my  information  to  a  friend  pres- 
ent ;  he  mentioned  it  to  Burns,  who  rewarded  me  with 
a  look  and  a  Avord,  which,  though  of  mere  civility,  I 
then  received  and  still  recollect  with  very  great  pleas- 

30  ure. 

His  person  was  strong  and  robust ;  his  manners  nistic, 
not  clownish;  a  sort  of  dignified  plainness  and  sim- 
plicity, which  received  part  of  its  effect  perhajis  from 
one's    knowledge   of   his   extraordinary  talents.      His 

35  features  are  represented  in  Mr.  Nasmy tli's  picture :  but 


102  CARLYLE'S 

to  me  it  conveys  the  idea  that  they  are  diminished,  as  if 
seen  in  perspective.  I  think  his  countenance  was  more 
massive  than  it  looks  in  anj-  of  the  portraits.  I  should 
have  taken  the  poet,  had  I  not  known  what  he  was,  for 
a  very  sagacious  country  farmer  of  the  old  Scotch  5 
school,  i.  e.,  none  of  your  modern  agriculturists  who 
kept  labourers  for  their  drudgery,  but  the  douce  gudeman 
who  held  his  own  plough.  There  was  a  strong  expres- 
sion of  sense  and  shrewdness  in  all  his  lineaments ;  the 
eye  alone,  I  think,  indicated  the  poetical  character  and  lO 
temperament.  It  was  large,  and  of  a  dark  cast,  which 
glowed  (I  say  literally  glowed)  when  he  spoke  with 
feeling  or  interest.  I  never  saw  such  another  eye  in  a 
human  head,  though  I  have  seen  the  most  distinguished 
men  of  my  time.  His  conversation  expressed  perfect  15 
self-confidence,  without  the  slightest  presiuiiption. 
Among  the  men  who  were  the  most  learned  of  their 
time  and  country,  he  expressed  himself  with  perfect 
firmness,  but  without  the  least  intrusive  forwardness; 
and  when  he  differed  in  opinion,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  20 
express  it  firmly,  yet  at  the  same  time  with  modesty. 
I  do  not  remember  any  part  of  his  conversation  dis- 
tinctly enough  to  be  quoted;  nor  did  I  ever  see  him 
again,  except  in  the  street,  where  he  did  not  recognize 
me,  as  I  could  not  expect  he  should.  He  was  much  25 
caressed  in  Edinburgh:  but  (considering  what  literary 
emoluments  have  been  since  his  day)  the  efforts  made 
for  his  relief  were  extremely  trifling. 

I  remember,  on  this  occasion  I  mention,  I  thought 
Burns's  acouaintance  with  English  poetiy  was  rather  30 
limited ;  and  also  that,  having  twenty  times  the  abili- 
ties of  Allan  Ramsay  and  of  Ferguson,  he  talked  of 
them  with  too  much  humility  as  his  models:  there  was 
,  doubtless  national  predilection  in  his  estimate. 

This  is  all  I  can  tell  you  about  Burns.     I  have  only  So 
to  add,  that  his  dress  corresponded  with  his  manner. 


BURNS  103 

He  was  like  a  farmer  dressed  in  his  best  to  dine  with 
the  laird.  I  do  not  speak  in  malam  partem,  when  I 
say,  I  never  saw  a  man  in  company  with  his  superiors 
in  station    or  information    more  perfectly   free    from 

5  either  the  reality  or  the  affectation  of  embarrassment.  I 
was  told,  but  did  not  observe  it,  that  his  address  to 
females  was  extremely  deferential,  and  always  with  a 
turn  either  to  the  pathetic  or  humorous,  which  engaged 
their  attention   particularly.      I  have  heard  the  late 

10  Duchess  of  Gordon  remark  this. — I  do  not  know  any- 
thing I  can  add  to  these  recollections  of  forty  years 
since." 

The  conduct  of  Burns  under  this  dazzling  blaze 
of  favour ;  the  calm,  unaffected,  manly  manner  in 

15  which  he  not  only  bore  it,  but  estimated  its  value, 
has  justly  been  regarded  as  the  best  proof  that 
could  be  given  of  his  real  vigour  and  integrity  of 
mind.  A  little  natural  vanity,  some  touches  of 
hypocritical  modesty,  some  glimmerings  of  affecta- 

20  tion,  at  least  some  fear  of  being  thought  affected, 
we  could  have  pardoned  in  almost  any  man ;  but 
no  such  indication  is  to  be  traced  here.  In  his 
unexampled  situation  the  young  peasant  is  not  a 
moment  jierplexed ;  so  many  strange  lights  do  not 

25  confuse  him,  do  not  lead  him  astray.  Nevertheless, 
we  cannot  but  perceive  that  this  winter  did  him 
gi'eat  and  lasting  injury.  A  somewhat  clearer 
knowledge  of  men's  affairs,  scarcely  of  their  charac- 
ters, it  did  afford  him;  but  a  sharper  feeling  of 

30  Fortune's  unequal  arrangements  in  their  social 
destiny  it  also  left  with  him.  He  had  seen  the  gay 
and   gorgeous   arena,  in   which   the   powerful  are 


104  CARLYLE'S 

born  to  play  their  parts ;  nay,  had  himself  stood  in 
tlie  midst  of  it;  and  he  felt  more  bitterly  than 
ever,  that  here  he  was  but  a  looker-on,  and  had  no 
part  or  lot  in  that  sj)lendid  game.  From  this  time 
a  jealous  indignant  fear  of  social  degi'adation  takes  5 
possession  of  him;  and  perverts,  so  far  as  aught 
could  pervert,  his  private  contentment,  and  his 
feelings  towards  his  richer  fellows.  It  was  clear  to 
Burns  that  he  had  talent  enough  to  make  a  fortune, 
or  a  hunch'ed  fortunes,  could  he  but  have  rightly  lo 
willed  this ;  it  was  clear  also  that  he  willed  some- 
thing far  different,  and  therefore  could  not  make 
one.  Unhappy  it  was  that  he  had  not  power  to 
choose  the  one,  and  reject  the  other;  but  must 
halt  forever  between  two  opinions,  two  objects;  i5 
making  hampered  advancement  towards  either. 
But  so  is  it  with  many  men:  we  "long  for  the 
merchandise,  yet  would  fain  keep  the  price;"  and 
so  stand  chaffering  with  Fate,  in  vexatious  alterca- 
tion, till  the  night  come,  and  our  fair  is  over !  20 

The  Edinburgh  Learned  of  that  period  were 
in  general  more  noted  for  clearness  of  head  than 
for  warmth  of  heart:  with  the  exception  of  the 
good  old  Blacklock,  whose  help  was  too  ineffectual, 
scarcely  one  among  them  seems  to  have  looked  at  25 
Burns  with  any  true  sympathy,  or  indeed  much 
otherwise  than  as  at  a  highly  curious  tlting.  By 
the  gi'eat  also  he  is  treated  in  the  customary 
fashion;  entertained  at  their  tables  and  dismissed: 
certain  modica  of  pudding  and   praise   are,   from  so 


BURNS  105 

time  to  time,  gladly  exchanged  for  the  fascination 
of  his  presence;  which  exchange  once  effected,  the 
bai'gain  is  finished,  and  each  party  goes  his  several 
way.  At  the  end  of  this  strange  season,  Burns 
5  gloomily  sums  np  his  gains  and  losses,  and  medi- 
tates on  the  chaotic  future.  In  money  he  is 
somewhat  richer ;  in  fame  and  the  show  of  happi- 
ness, infinitely  richer ;  but  in  the  substance  of  it, 
as  poor  as  ever.     Nay,  poorer;  for  his  heart  is  now 

10  maddened  still  more  with  the  fever  of  worldly 
Ambition ;  and  through  long  years  the  disease  will 
rack  him  with  unprofitable  sufferings,  and  weaken 
his  strength  for  all  true  and  nobler  aims. 

What  Burns  was  next  to  do  or  to  avoid ;  how  a  man 

15  so  circumstanced  was  now  to  guide  himself  towards 
his  true  advantage,  might  at  this  point  of  time 
have  been  a  question  for  the  wisest.  It  was  a 
question,  too,  which  apparently  he  was  left 
altogether  to  answer  for  himself :  of  his  learned  or 

so  rich  patrons  it  had  not  struck  any  individual  to 
turn  a  thought  on  this  so  trivial  matter.  Without 
claiming  for  Burns  the  praise  of  perfect  sagacity, 
we  must  say  that  his  Excise  and  Farm  scheme  does 
not  seem  to  us  a  very  unroasonable  one ;  that  we 

25  should  be  at  a  loss,  even  now,  to  suggest  one 
decidedly  better.  Certain  of  his  admirers  have 
felt  scandalized  at  his  ever  resolving  to  gauge;  and 
would  have  had  him  lie  at  the  pool,  till  the  spirit 
of  Patronage  stirred  the  waters,  that  so,  with  one 

30  friendly  plunge,  all  his  sorrows  might  be  healed. 


106  CARLYLE'S 

Unwise  counsellors !  They  know  not  the  manner 
of  this  spirit;  and  how,  in  the  lap  of  most  golden 
di-eams,  a  man  might  have  happiness,  were  it  not 
that  in  the  interim  he  mnst  die  of  hunger!  It 
reflects  credit  on  the  manliness  and  sound  sense  of  5 
Burns,  that  he  felt  so  early  on  what  gi'ound  he  was 
standing ;  and  preferred  self-help,  on  the  humblest 
scale,  to  dej)endence  and  inaction,  though  with 
hope  of  far  more  splendid  possibilities.  But  even 
these  possibilities  were  not  rejected  in  his  scheme :  ic 
he  might  expect,  if  it  chanced  that  he  had  any 
friend,  to  rise,  in  no  long  period,  into  something 
even  like  opulence  and  leisure;  while  again,  if  it 
chanced  that  he  had  no  friend,  he  could  still  live  in 
security;  and  for  the  rest,  he  "did  not  intend  to  is 
borrow  honour  from  any  profession.  "  AVe  think, 
then,  that  his  plan  was  honest  and  well-calculated : 
all  turned  on  the  execution  of  it.  •  Doubtless  it 
failed ;  yet  not,  we  believe,  from  any  vice  inherent 
in  itself.  Nay,  after  all,  it  «vas  no  failure  of  so 
external  means,  but  of  internal,  that  overtook  Burns. 
His  was  no  bankruptcy  of  the  purse,  but  of  the 
soul;  to  his  last  day,  he  owed  no  man  anything. 
Meanwhile  he  begins  well :  with  two  good  and 
wise  actions,  llis  donation  to  his  mother,  munifi-  25 
cent  from  a  man  whose  income  had  lately  been 
seven  pounds  a-year,  was  worthy  of  him,  and  not 
more  than  worthy.  Generous  also,  and  worthy  of 
him,  was  liis  treatment  of  the  woman  whose  life's 
welfare  now  depended  on  his  pleasure.     A  friendly  sj 


BURNS  107 

observer  might  have  hojoed  serene  days  for  him: 
his  mind  is  on  the  true  road  to  peace  with  itself : 
"what  clearness  he  still  wants  will  be  given  as  he 
proceeds;  for  the  best  teacher  of  duties  that  still 

5  lie  dim  to  ns,  is  the  Practice  of  those  we  see  and 
have  at  hand.  Had  the  "jjatrons  of  genius,"  who 
could  give  him  nothing,  but  taken  nothing  from 
him,  at  least  nothing  more!  The  wounds  of  his 
heart  would  have  healed;  vulgar  ambition  would 

10  have  died  away.  Toil  and  Frugality  would  have 
been  welcome,  since  Virtue  dwelt  with  them ;  and 
Poetry  would  have  shone  through  them  as  of  old : 
and  in  her  clear  ethereal  light,  which  was  his  own 
by  birthright,  he  might  have  looked  down  on  his 

15  earthly  destiny  and  all  its  obstructions,  not  with 
patience  only,  but  with  love. 

But  the  patrons  of  genius  would  not  have  it  so. 
Picturesque  tourists,*  all    manner  of   fashionable 

*  There  is  one  little  sketch  by  certain  "English  gen- 
tlemen" of  this  class,  which,  though  adopted  in 
•  Currie's  Narrative,  and  since  then  repeated  in  most 
others,  we  have  all  along  felt  an  invincible  disjiosition 
to  regard  as  imaginary:  "On  a  rock  that  projected  into 
the  stream,  they  saw  a  man  employed  in  angling,  of  a 
singular  appearance.  He  had  a  cap  made  of  fox-skin  on 
his  head,  a  loose  greatcoat  fixed  round  him  by  a  belt, 
from  which  depended  an  enormous  Highland  broad- 
sword. It  was  Burns. "  Now,  we  rather  think,  it  was 
not  Burns.  For,  to  say  nothing  of  the  fox-skin  cap, 
the  loose  and  quite  Hibei'nian  watchcoat  with  the  belt, 
what  are  we  to  make  of  this  "enormous  Higliland 
broad-sword"  depending  from  hiiu?     More  especially, 


108  CARLYLE'S 

danglers  after  literature,  and,  far  worse,  all  manner 
of  convivial  Mageenases,  hovered  round  him  in  his 
retreat ;  and  his  good  as  well  as  his  weak  qualities 
secured  them  influence  over  him.  He  was  flattered 
by  then*  notice ;  and  his  warm  social  nature  made  5 
it  impossible  for  him  to  shake  them  off,  and  hold 
on  his  way  apai't  from  them.  These  men,  as  we 
believe,  were  proximately  the  means  of  his  rain. 
Not  that  they  meant  him  any  ill ;  they  only  meant 
themselves  a  little  good;  if  he  suffered  harm,  let  lO 
Mm  look  to  it !  But  they  wasted  his  precious  time 
and  his  precious  talent;  they  disturbed  his  com- 
posure, broke  down  his  returning  habits  of  tem- 
perance and  assiduous  contented  exertion.  Their 
pampering  was  baneful  to  him;  their  cruelty,  is 
which  soon  followed,  was  equally  baneful.  The 
old  grudge  against  Fortune's  inequality  awoke 
with  new  bitterness  in  their  neighbourhood;  and 
Bm-ns  had  no  retreat  but  to  "the  Eock  of  Indepen- 
dence," which  is  but  an  air-castle  after  all,  that  20 
looks  well  at  a  distance,  but  will  screen  no  one  from 
real  wind  and  wet.  Flushed  with  irregular  excite- 
ment, exasperated  alternately  by  contempt  of  others 
and   contempt   of   himself,  Burns   was   no  longer 

as  there  is  no  word  of  parish  constables  on  the  outlook 
to  see  whether,  as  Dennis  phrases  it,  he  had  an  eye  to 
his  own  midriff  or  that  of  the  public!  Burns,  of  all 
men,  had  the  least  need,  and  the  least  tendency,  to  seek 
for  distinction  either  in  his  own  ej'es  or  those  of  others, 
by  such  poor  mummeries. 


BURNS  109 

regaining  his  peace  of  mind,  but  fast  losing  it 
forever.  There  was  a  hollowness  at  the  heart  of 
his  life,  for  his  conscience  did  not  now  approve 
what  he  was  doing. 

5  Amid  the  vapours  of  unwise  enjoyment,  of  boot- 
less remorse,  and  angry  discontent  with  Fate,  his 
true  loadstar,  a  life  of  Poetry,  with  Poverty,  nay, 
with  Famine  if  it  must  be  so,  was  too  often  alto- 
gether hidden  from  his  eyes.     And  yet  he  sailed  a 

10  sea  where  without  some  such  loadstar  there  was  no 
right  steering.  Meteors  of  French  Politics  rise 
before  him,  but  these  were  not  his  stars.  An  acci- 
dent this,  which  hastened,  but  did  not  originate,  his 
worst  distresses.     In  the  mad  contentions  of  that 

15  time,  he  comes  in  collision  with  certain  official 
Superiors ;  is  wounded  by  them ;  cruelly  lacerated, 
we  should  say,  could  a  dead  mechanical  implement, 
in  any  case,  be  called  cruel;  and  shrinks,  in  indig- 
nant pain,  into  deeper  self -seclusion,  into  gloomier 

20  moodiness  than  ever.  His  life  has  now  lost  its 
unity :  it  is  a  life  of  fragments ;  led  with  little  aim, 
beyond  the  melancholy  one  of  securing  its  own 
continuance, — in  fits  of  wild  false  joy  when  such 
offered,    and   of    black    despondency   when    they 

25  passed  away.  His  character  before  the  world 
begins  to  suffer :  calumny  is  busy  with  him ;  for  a 
miserable  man  makes  more  enemies  than  friends. 
Some  faults  he  has  fallen  into,  and  a  thousand 
misfortunes ;  but  deep  criminality  is  what  he  stands 

30  accused  of,  and  they  that  are  not  without  sin  cast 


110  CARLYLE'S 

the  fii'st  stone  at  him!  For  is  he  not  a  well-wisher 
to  the  French  Eevolution,  a  Jacobin,  and  therefore 
in  that  one  act  guilty  of  all?  These  accusations, 
political  and  moral,  it  has  since  appeai'ed,  were 
false  enough :  but  the  world  hesitated  little  s 
to  credit  them.  Nay,  his  convivial  Maecenases 
themselves  were  not  the  last  to  do  it.  There  is 
reason  to  believe  that,  in  his  later  years,  the 
Dumfries  Aristocracy  had  partly  withdrawn  them- 
selves from  Burns,  as  from  a  tainted  person  no  lo 
longer  worthy  of  their  acquaintance.  That  painful 
class,  stationed,  in  all  provincial  cities,  behind  the 
outmost  breastwork  of  Gentility,  there  to  stand 
siege  and  do  battle  against  the  intrusions  of 
Grocer dorn  and  Grazierdom,  had  actually  seen  u 
dishonour  in  the  society  of  Burns,  and  branded 
him  with  their  veto;  had,  as  we  vulgarly  say, 
cut  him!  We  find  one  passage  in  this  WorJc 
of  Mr.  Lockharfs,  Avhich  will  not  out  of  our 
thoughts :  20 

"A  gentleman  of  that  county,  whose  name  I  have 
ah'eady  more  than  once  had  occasion  to  refer  to,  has 
often  told  me  that  he  was  seldom  more  grieved  than 
when,  riding  into  Dumfries  one  fine  summer  evening 
about  this  time  to  attend  a  count}'  ball,  he  saw  Burns  25 
walking  alone,  on  the  shady  side  of  the  principal  street 
of  the  town,  while  the  opposite  side  was  gay  with  suc- 
cessive groups  of  gentlemen  and  ladies,  all  drawn 
together  for  the  festivities  of  the  night,  not  one  of  whom 
appeared  willing  to  recognize  him.  The  horseman  x 
dismounted,  and  joined  Burns,  who,  on  his  proposing  to 
cross  the  street,  said:  'Nay,  nay,  my  young  friend,  that's 


BURNS  111 

all  over  now ;'  and  quoted,  after  a  pause,  some  verses  of 
Lady  Grizzel  Baillie's  pathetic  ballad: 

"His  bonnet  stood  ance  fu'  fair  on  his  brow. 
His  auld  ane  look'd  better  than  mony  ane's  new; 
B  But  now  he  lets  't  wear  ony  way  it  will  hing, 

And  casts  himsel  dowie  upon  the  corn-bing. 

O,  were  we  young  as  we  ance  hae  been, 
We  suld  hae  been  galloping  down  on  yon  gi-een. 
And  linking  it  ower  the  lily-white  lea! 
10         And  u'erena  my  heart  light,  I  icad  die. " 

It  was  little  in  Burns's  character  to  let  his  feelings  on 
certain  subjects  escape  in  this  fashion.  He,  immedi- 
ately after  reciting  these  verses,  assumed  the  sprightli- 
ness  of  his  most  pleasing  manner ;  and  taking  his  young 
15  friend  home  with  him,  entertained  him  very  agreeably 
till  the  hour  of  the  ball  arrived." 

Alas!  when  we  think  that  Burns  now  sleeps 
"where  bitter  indignation  can  no  longer  lacerate 
his  heart,"*  and  that  most  of  those  fair  dames  and 

20  frizzled  gentlemen  already  lie  at  his  side,  where  the 
breastwork  of  gentility  is  qnite  thrown  down, — who 
would  not  sigh  over  the  thin  delusions  and  foolish 
toys  that  divide  heart  from  heart,  and  make  man 
unmerciful  to  his  brother ! 

25  It  was  not  now  to  be  hoped  that  the  genius  of 
Burns  would  ever  reach  maturity,  or  accomplish 
aught  worthy  of  itself.  His  spirit  was  jarred  in  its 
melody;  not  the  soft  breath  of  natural  feeling,  bub 
the  rude  hand  of  Fate,  Avas  now  sweeping  over  the 

*Ubi  sceva  indignatio  cor  ulterius  lacerare  nequit^ 
Swift's  Epitaph. 


113  CARLYLE'S  x 

strings.  And  yet  what  harmony  was  in  him,  what 
music  even  in  his  discords !  How  the  Avild  tones 
had  a  cliarm  for  the  simplest  and  the  wisest ;  and 
all  men  felt  and  knew  that  here  also  was  one  of  the 
(lifted!  "If  he  entered  an  inn  at  midnight,  after  5 
all  the  inmates  were  in  bed,  the  news  of  his  arrival 
circulated  from  the  cellar  to  the  garret ;  and  ere  ten 
minutes  liad  elapsed,  the  landlord  and  all  his  guests 
were  assembled!"  Some  brief  pure  moments  of 
poetic  life  were  yet  appointed  him,  in  the  compo-  ic 
sition  of  his  Songs.  "We  can  understand  how  he 
grasped  at  this  employment;  and  how  too,  he 
spurned  all  other  reward  for  it  but  what  the  labour 
itself  brought  him.  For  the  soul  of  Burns,  though 
scathed  and  marred,  was  yet  living  in  its  full  moral  u 
strength,  though  sharply  conscious  of  its  errors  and 
abasement  :  and  here  in  his  destitution  and 
degradation,  was  one  act  of  seeming  nobleness 
and  self-devotedness  left  even  for  him  to  perform. 
He  felt  too,  that  with  all  the  "thoughtless  follies"  a 
that  had  "laid  him  low,"  the  world  was  unjust 
and  cruel  to  him;  and  he  silently  appealed  to 
another  and  calmer  time.  Not  as  a  hired  soldier, 
but  as  a  patriot,  would  he  strive  for  the  glory  of  his 
country :  so  he  cast  from  him  the*  poor  sixpence  28 
a-day,  and  served  zealously  as  a  volunteer.  Let  us 
not  grudge  him  this  last  luxury  of  his  existence ; 
let  him  not  have  appealed  to  us  in  vain!  The 
money  was  not  necessai'y  to  him;  he  straggled 
tlu'^ugh  without   it:    long   since,    these    guineas  30 


BURNS  115 

would  have  been  gone ;  and  now  the  high-minded- 
ness  of  refusing  them  will  plead  for  him  in  all 
hearts  forever. 

We  are  here  arrived  at  the  crisis  of  Burns 's  life; 

5  for  matters  had  now  taken  such  a  shape  with  him 
as  could  not  long  continue.  If  impiovement  was 
not  to  be  looked  for,  K'ature  could  only  for  a  limited 
time  maintain  this  dark  and  maddening  warfare 
against  the  world  and  itself.     We  are  not  medically 

10  informed  whether  any  continuance  of  years  was, 
at  this  j)eriod,  probable  for  Burns;  whether  his 
death  is  to  be  looked  on  as  in  some  sense  an 
accidental  event,  or  only  as  the  natural  consequence 
of  the  long  series  of  events  that  had  preceded.    The 

15  latter  seems  to  be  the  likelier  opinion ;  and  yet  it  is 
])y  no  means  a  certain  one.  At  all  events,  as  we 
have  said,  some  change  could  not  be  very  distant. 
Three  gates  of  deliverance,  it  seems  to  us,  were 
open  for  Burns :  clear  poetical  activity ;  madness ; 

20  or  death.  The  fii-st,  with  longer  life,  was  still 
230ssible,  though  not  probable,  for  physical  causes 
were  beginning  to  be  concerned  in  it;  and  yet 
Burns  had  an  iron  resolution ;  could  he  but  have 
seen  and  felt,  that  not  only  his  highest  glory,  but 

■ih  his  first  duty,  and  the  true  medicine  for  all  his 
woes,  lay  here.  The  second  was  still  less  probable ; 
for  his  mind  was  ever  among  the  clearest  and  firm- 
est. So  the  milder  third  gate  was  opened  for  him; 
and  he  passed,  not  softly,  yet  speedily,   into  that 

30  still  country  where  the  hailstorms  and  fire-showers 


114  CARLYLES 

do  not  reach,  and  the  heaviest  iaden  wayfai'er  at 
length  lays  down  his  load ! 

Contomplating  this  sad  end  of  Burns,  and  how 
he  sank  unaided  by  any  real  help,  uncheered  by 
any  wise  sympathy,  generous  minds  have  sometimes  5 
figured  to  themselves,  with  a  reproachful  sorrow, 
that  much  might  have  been  done  for  him ;  that  by 
counsel,  true  affection,  and  fi'iendly  ministrations, 
he  might  have  been  saved  to  himself  and  the  world. 
We  question  whether  there  is  not  more  tenderness  lo 
of  heart  than  soundness  of  judgment  in  these 
suggestions.  It  seems  dubious  to  us  whether  the 
richest,  wisest,  most  benevolent  individual  could 
have  lent  Burns  any  effectual  help.  Counsel, 
which  seldom  profits  any  one,  he  did  not  need ;  in  i5 
his  understanding,  he  knew  the  right  from  the 
wrong,  as  well  perhaps  as  any  man  ever  did ;  but 
the  persuasion  which  would  have  availed  him,  lieJ 
not  so  much  in  the  head  as  in  the  heart,  where  no 
argument  or  expostulation  could  have  assisted  20 
much  to  implant  it.  As  to  money  again,  we  do 
not  believe  that  this  was  his  essential  want ;  or  well 
see  how  any  private  man  could,  even  presupposing 
Burns 's  consent,  have  bestowed  on  him  an 
independent  fortune,  with  much  prospect  of  25 
decisive  advantage.  It  is  a  mortifying  truth,  that 
two  men,  in  any  rank  of  society,  could  hardly  be 
found  virtuous  enough  to  give  money,  a-nd  to  take 
t  as  a  necessary  gift,  without  injury  to  the  moral 


BURNS  115 

entireness  of  one  or  both.  But  so  stands  the  fact: 
Friendship,  in  the  old  heroic  sense  of  that  term,  no 
longer  exists;  except  in  the  cases  of  kindred  or 
other    legal    affinity,    it    is    in  reality   no   longer 

5  expected,  or  recognized  as  a  virtue  among  men. 
A  close  observer  of  manners  has  i^ronounced  "Pat- 
ronage," that  is,  pecuniary  or  other  economic  fur- 
therance, to  be  "twice  cursed;"  cursing  him  that 
gives,  and  him  that  takes!     And  thus,  in  regard  to 

•0  outward  matters  also  it  has  become  the  rule,  as  in 
regard  to  inward  it  always  was  and  must  be  the  rule, 
that  no  one  shall  look  for  effectual  help  to  another ; 
but  that  each  shall  rest  contented  with  what  help  he 
can  afford  himself.     Such,  we  say,  is  the  principle 

15  of  modern  Honour ;  naturally  enough  growing  out 
of  that  sentiment  of  Pride,  which  we  inculcate  and 
encourage  as  the  basis  of  our  whole  social  morality. 
Many  a  poet  has  been  poorer  than  Burns ;  but  no 
one  was  ever  prouder :  we  may  question  whether, 

80  without  gi'eat  precautions,  even  a  pension  from 
Royalty  would  not  have  galled  and  encumbered, 
more  than  actually  assisted  him. 

Still  less,  therefore,  are  we  disposed  to  join  with 
another  class  of  Burns 's  admirers,  who  accuse  the 

85  higher  ranks  among  us  of  having  ruined  Burns  by 
their  selfish  neglect  of  nim.  "We  have  already 
stated  our  doubts  whether  direct  pecuniary  help, 
had  it  been  offered,  would  have  been  accejited,  or 
could  have  proved  very  effectual.     We  shall  readily 

so  admit,  however,  that   much   was   to   be   done  for 


116  CARLYLE'S 

Burns;  that  many  a  poisoned  arrow  might  have 
oeen  warded  from  his  bosom ;  many  an  entangle- 
ment in  liis  path,  cut  asunder  by  the  hand  of  the 
powerful;  and  light  and  heat,  shed  on  him  from 
high  places,  would  have  made  his  humble  atmos-  5 
Inhere  more  genial;  and  the  softest  heart  then 
breathing  might  have  lived  and  died  with  some 
fewer  pangs.  Nay,  we  shall  grant  farther,  and  for 
Burns  it  is  granting  much,  that,  with  all  his  pride, 
he  Avould  have  thanked,  even  with  exaggerated  la 
gratitude,  any  one  who  had  cordially  befriended 
him :  patronage,  unless  once  cursed,  needed  not  to 
have  been  twice  so.  At  all  events,  the  poor  pro- 
motion he  desired  in  his  calling  might  have  been 
gi'anted:  it  was  his  own  scheme,  therefore  likelier  is 
than  any  other  to  be  of  service.  All  this  it  might 
have  been  a  luxury,  nay,  it  was  a  duty,  for  our 
nobility  to  have  done.  Xo  part  of  all  this,  however, 
did  any  of  them  do;  or  apparently  attempt,  or  wish 
to  do :  so  much  is  gi'anted  against  them.  But  what  ao 
then  is  the  amount  of  their  blame?  Simi)ly  that 
they  were  men  of  the  world,  and  walked  by  the  prin- 
ciples of  such  men;  that  they  treated  Burns,  as 
other  nobles  and  other  commoners  hud  done  other 
poets;  as  the  English  did  Sliakspeare;  as  King  25 
Charles  and  his  Cavaliers  did  Butler,  as  King  Philip 
and  his  Grandees  did  Cervantes.  Do  men  gather 
grapes  of  thorns ;  or  shall  we  cut  down  our  thorns 
for  yielding  only  defence  and  haws?  How,  indeed, 
could  the  "nobility  and  gentry  of  his  native  land"  30 


BURNS  117 

hold  out  any  help  to  thi^  "Scottish  Bard,  proud  of 
his  name  and  country"?  "Were  the  nobility  and 
gentry  so  much  as  able  rightly  to  help  themselves? 
Had  they  not  their  game  to  preserve ;  their  borough 

6  interests  to  strengthen;  dinners,  therefore,  of  vari- 
ous kinds  to  eat  and  give?  Were  their  means  more 
than  adequate  to  all  this  business,  or  less  than 
adequate?  Less  than  adequate,  in  general;  few  of 
them  in  reality  were  richer  than  Burns ;  many  of 

10  them  were  poorer ;  for  sometimes  they  had  to  wring 
their  supplies,  as  with  thumbscrews,  from  the  hard 
hand,  and,  in  their  need  of  guineas,  to  forget  their 
duty  of  mercy :  which  Burns  was  never  reduced  to 
do.     Let  us  pity  and  forgive  them.  The  game  they 

15  preserved  and  shot,  the  dinners  they  ate  and  gave, 
the  borough  interests  they  strengthened,  the  litth 
Babylons  they  severally  builded  by  the  glory  of 
their  might,  are  all  melted  or  melting  back  into 
the    primeval    Chaos,    as     man's    merely    selfish 

20  endeavours  are  fated  to  do:  and  here  was  an 
action,  extending,  in  virtue  of  its  worldly  influ- 
ence, we  may  say,  through  all  time;  in  virtue  of 
its  moral  nature,  beyoiid  all  time,  being  immortal 
as  the  Spirit  of  Goodness  itself;   this  action  was 

86  offered  them  to  do,  and  light  was  not  given  them 
to  do  it.  Let  us  pity  and  forgive  them.  But 
better  than  pity,  let  us  go  and  do  othcrioise. 
Human  suffering  did  not  end  with  the  life  of 
Burns;  neither  was   the  solemn  mandate,  "Love 

80  one  another,  bear  one  another's  burdens,"  given  to 


118  CARLYLE'S 

the  rich  only,  but  to  all  men.  True,  we  shall  find 
no  Burns  to  relieve,  to  assuage  by  our  aid  or  our 
pity;  but  celestial  natures,  gi'oaning  under  the 
fardels  of  a  weary  life,  we  shall  still  find ;  and  that 
wretchedness  which  Fate  has  rendered  voiceless  5 
and  tuneless,  is  not  the  least  wretched,  but  the  most. 
Still,  we  do  not  think  that  the  blame  of  Burns 's 
failure  lies  chiefly  with  the  world.  The  world,  it 
seems  to  us,  treated  him  with  more,  rather  than 
with  less,  kindness  than  it  usually  shows  to  such  lo 
men.  It  has  ever,  we  fear,  shown  but  small  favour 
to  its  Teachers:  hunger  and  nakedness,  perils  and 
revilings,  the  prison,  the  cross,  the  poison-chalice, 
have,  in  most  times  and  countries,  been  the 
market-i^rice  it  has  offered  for  Wisdom,  the  welcome  is 
with  which  it  has  gi'eeted  those  who  have  come  to 
enlighten  and  purify.  Homer  and  Socrates,  and 
the  Christian  Apostles,  belong  to  old  days;  but  the 
world's  Martyrology  was  not  completed  with  these. 
Roger  Bacon  and  Galileo  languish  in  priestly  dun-  20 
geons;  Tasso  pines  in  the  cell  of  a  madhouse; 
Camoens  dies  begging  on  the  streets  of  Lisbon. 
So  neglected,  so  "persecuted  they  the  Pro2)hets," 
not  in  Judea  only,  but  in  all  places  where  men 
have  been.  AVe  reckon  that  every  j)oet  of  Burns 's  25 
order  is,  or  should  be,  a  prophet  and  teacher  to 
his  age;  tbat  he  has  no  right  to  expect  gi-eat  kind- 
ness from  it,  but  rather  is  bound  to  do  it  gixat 
kindness;  that  Burns,  in  particular,  experienced 
"nlly  the  usual  proportion  of  the  world's  goodness;  30 


BURNS  119 

and  that  the  blame  of  his  failure,  as  we  have  said, 
lies  not  chiefly  with  the  world. 

Where,  then,  does  it  lie?  We  are  forced  to 
answer:  With  himself;  it  is  his  inward,  not  his 
5  outward,  misfortunes  that  bring  him  to  the  dust. 
Seldom,  indeed,  is  it  otherwise;  seldom  is  a  life 
morally  wrecked  but  the  gi*and  cause  lies  in  some 
internal  mal-arrangement,  some  want  less  of  good 
fortune  than  of  good  guidance.     Nature  fashions 

10  no  creature  without  implanting  in  it  the  strength 
needful  for  its  action  and  duration;  least  of  all 
does  she  so  neglect  her  masterpiece  and  darling, 
the  fjoetic  soul.  Neither  can  we  believe  that  it  is 
ill  the  power  of  any  external  circumstances  utterly 

15  to  ruin  the  mind  of  a  man ;  nay,  if  proper  wisdom 
be  given  him,  even  so  much  as  to  affect  its  essential 
health  and  beauty.  The  sternest  sum-total  of  all 
worldly  misfortunes  is  Death;  nothing  more  can 
lie  in  the  cup  of  human  woe:  yet  many  men,  in  all 

20  ages,  have  triumphed  over  Death,  and  led  it 
captive ;  converting  its  physical  victory  into  a 
moral  victory  for  themselves,  into  a  seal  and 
immortal  consecration  for  all  that  their  past  life 
had  achieved.     What  has  been  done,  may  be  done 

25  again :  nay,  it  is  but  the  degree  and  not  the  kind 
of  such  heroism  that  differs  in  different  seasons; 
for  without  some  portion  of  this  spirit,  not  of 
boisterous  daring,  but  of  silent  fearlessness,  of 
Self-denial  in  all  its  forms,  no  good  man,  in  any 

80  scene  or  time,  has  ever  attained  to  be  good. 


120  CARLYLE'S 

We  have  already  stated  the  error  of  Burns ;  and 
mourned  over  it,  rather  than  blamed  it.  It  was 
the  want  of  unity  in  his  jiurposes,  of  consistency  in 
his  aims ;  the  hajiless  attempt  to  mingle  in  friendly 
nnion  the  common  spirit  of  the  world  with  the  5 
spirit  of  poetry,  which  is  of  a  far  different  and 
altogether  irreconcilable  nature.  Burns  was 
nothing  wholly ;  and  Burns  could  be  nothing,  no 
man  formed  as  he  was  can  be  anything,  by  halves. 
The  heart,  not  of  a  mere  hot-blooded,  popular  lo 
Versemonger,  or  poetical  Restaurateur,  but  of  a 
true  Poet  and  Singer,  worthy  of  the  old  religious 
heroic  times,  had  been  given  him:  and  he  fell 
in  an  age,  not  of  heroism  and  religion,  but  of 
scepticism,  selfishness,  and  triviality,  when  true  is 
Nobleness  was  little  understood,  and  its  place 
supplied  by  a  hollow,  dissocial,  altogether  barren 
and  unfruitful  principle  of  Pride.  The  influences 
of  that  age,  his  open,  kind,  susceptible  natiu'e,  to 
say  nothing  of  his  highly  untoward  situation,  made  20 
it  more  than  usually  difficult  for  him  to  cast  aside, 
or  rightly  subordinate ;  the  better  spirit  that  was 
within  him  ever  sternly  demanded  its  rights,  its 
supremacy:  he  spent  his  life  in  endeavouring  to 
reconcile  these  two;  and  lost  it,  as  he  must  lose  it,  25 
without  reconciling  them. 

Burns  was  born  poor ;  and  born  also  to  continue 
poor,  for  he  would  not  endeavour  to  be  otherwise: 
this  it  had  been  well  could  he  have  once  for  all 
admitted,  and  considered  as  finally  settled.     He  30 


BURNS  121 

vvas  poor,  truly;    but  hundi-eds  even  of  his  own 
class  and  order  of  minds  have  been  poorer,  yet  have 
suffered   nothing  deadly   from   it:    nay,   his   own 
Father  had  a  far  sorer    battle    with    ungrateful 
5  destiny  than  his  was;  and  he  did  not  yield  to  it,  but 
died  courageously  warring,  and  to  all  moral  intents 
prevailing,   against    it.     True,  Burns    had    little 
means,  had  even  little  time   for  poetry,  his  only 
real  pursuit  and  vocation ;  but  so  much  the  more 
10  precious    was   what  little  he  had.     In  all  these 
external  respects  his  case  was  hard ;  but  very  fax 
from  the   hardest.     Poverty,  incessant  di'udgery- 
and  much  worse  evils,  it  has  often  been  the  lot  of 
Foets  and  wise  men  to  strive  with,  and  their  glory 
15  to  conquer.     Locke  was  banished  as  a  traitor ;  and 
wrote  his  Essay  on  the   Human    Utider standing 
sheltering  himself  in  a  Dutch  garret.    Was  Milton 
rich  or  at  his  ease  when  he  composed  Paradise 
Lost?     Not  only  low,  but  fallen  from  a   height; 
20  not  only  poor,  but  impoverished ;  in  darkness  and 
Avith  dangers  compassed  round,  he  sang  his  immor- 
tal song,  and  found  fit  audience,  though  few.    Did 
not  Cervantes  finish  his  work,  a  maimed  soldier 
and  in  prison?    Nay,  was  not  the  A  raucana,  which 
25  Spain  acknowledges  as  its  Epic,  written  without 
even  the  aid  of  paper;  on  scrajis  of  leather,  as  the 
stout  fighter  and  voyager  snatched    any  moment 
from  that  wild  warfare? 

And  what,  then,  had  these  men,  which  Burns 
80  wanted?     Two  things;  both  which,  it  seems  to  us. 


^^2  CARLYLES 


are  indispensable  for  sncli  men.     They  had  a  true 
religious  principle  of  morals;  and  a  single,  not  a 
double  aim  in  their  activity.     They  were  not  self- 
seekers    and    self -worshipers;    but    seekers    and 
^vorshipers   of    something    far    better    than   Self.  5 
Not  personal  enjoyment  was  their   object;  but  a 
bigh,  heroic   idea  of  Eeligion,   of  Patriotism,   of 
heavenly  Wisdom,  in  one  or  the  other  form,  ever    • 
hovered  before  them;  in  which  cause  they  neither 
slirank  from  suffering,  nor  called  on  the  earth  to  10 
(vitness  it  as  something  wonderful;  but  patiently 
endured,  counting  it  blessedness  enough  so  to  spend 
and  be  spent.    Thus  the  "golden-calf  of  Self-love, " 
however   curiously    carved,   was  not  their  Deity; 
but  the  Invisible  Goodness,  which  alone  is  man's  ,5 
reasonable  service.     This  feeling  was  as  a  celestial 
fountain,  whose  streams   refreshed   into   gladness 
and  beauty  all  the  provinces  of  their  otherwise  too 
desolate   existence.     In  a  word,   they  willed   one 
thing,  to  which  all  other  things  were  subordinated  20 
and  made  subservient ;  and  therefore  they  accom- 
plished it.     The  wedge  will  rend  rocks;  but  its 
edge  must  be  sharp  and  single:  if  it  be  double,  the 
wedge  is  bruised  in  pieces,  and  will  rend  nothing. 

Part  of  this  superiority  these  men  owed  to  their  25 
age;  in  which  heroism  and  devotedness  were  still 
practised,  or  at  least  not  yet  disbelieved  in ;  but  much 
of  it  likewise  they  owed  to  themselves.  With 
Burns,  again,  it  was  different.  His  morality,  in 
most  of  its  practical  points,  is  that  of  a  mere  worldly  so 


BURNS  123 

man;  enjoyment,  in  a  finer  or  coarser  shape,  is  the 
only  thing  he  longs  and  strives  for.  A  noble  instinct 
sometimes  raises  him  above  this;  but  an  instinct 
only,  and  acting  only  for  moments.     He  has  no 

6  Religion ;  in  the  shallow  age  where  his  days  were 
cast,  Religion  was  not  discriminated  from  the 
New  and  Old  Light  forms  of  Religion ;  and  was, 
with  these,  becoming  obsolete  in  the  minds  of 
men.     His  heart,  indeed,  is  alive  with  a  trembling 

io  adoration,  but  there  is  no  temple  in  his  under- 
standmg.  He  lives  in  darkness  and  in  the  shadow 
of  doubt.  His  religion,  at  best,  is  an  anxious  wish; 
like  that  of  Rabelais,  "a  gi-eat  Perhaps." 

He  loved  Poetry  warmly,  and  in  his  heart;  could 

15  he  but  have  loved  it  purely,  and  with  his  whole  undi- 
vided heai-t,  it  had  been  well.  For  Poetry,  as 
Burns  could  have  followed  it,  is  but  another  form 
of  Wisdom,  of  Religion;  is  itself  Wisdom  and 
Religion.      But    this  also  was  denied  him.      His 

80  poetry  is  a  stray  vagrant  gleam,  which  will  not  be 
extinguished  within  him,  yet  rises  not  to  be  the 
true  light  of  his  path,  but  is  often  a  wildfire  that 
misleads  him.  It  was  not  necessary  for  Burns  to 
be  rich;  to  be,  or  to  seem,  "indej)endent:"  but  it 

86  was  necessary  for  him  to  be  at  one  with  his  own 
heart;  to  place  what  was  highest  in  his  nature 
highest  also  in  his  life:  "to  seek  within  himself  for 
that  consistency  and  sequence,  which  external  events 
would  forever  refuse  him."     He  was  born  a  poet; 

30  poetry  was  the  celestial  element  of  his  being,  and 


124  CAELYLE'S 

should  have  been  the  sonl  of  his  whole  endeavonr?. 
Lifted  into  that  serene  ether,  whither  he  had  wings 
given  him  to  mount,  he  would  have  needed  no  other 
elevation :  poverty,  neglect,  and  all  evil  save  the  des- 
ecration of  himself  and  his  Art,  Avere  a  small  matter  b 
to  him ;  the  pride  and  the  passions  of  the  world 
lay  far  beneath  his  feet ;  and  he  looked  down  alike  on 
noble  and  slave,  on  prince  and  beggar,  and  all  that 
wore  the  stamp  of  man,  with  cleai*  recognition, 
with  brotherly  affection,  with  sympathy,  with  pity,  lo 
Nay,  we  question  whether,  for  his  culture  as  a 
Poet,  poverty  and  much  suffering  for  a  season  were 
not  absolutely  advantageous.  Great  men  in  looking 
back  over  their  lives,  have  testified  to  that  effect. 
"I  would  not  for  much,"  says  Jean  Paul,  "that  15 
I  had  been  born  richer."  And  yet  Paul's  birth 
was  poor  enough;  for,  in  another  place,  he  adds: 
"The  prisoner's  allowance  is  bread  and  water;  and 
I  had  often  only  the  latter."  But  the  gold  that 
is  refined  in  the  hottest  furnace  comes  out  the  20 
purest;  or,  as  he  has  himself  expressed  it,  "the 
canary-bij'd  sings  sweeter  the  longer  it  has  been 
trained  in  a  darkened  cage." 

A  man  like  Burns  might  have  divided  his  hours 
between  poetry  and  virtuous  industry;  industry  25 
which  all  true  feeling  sanctions,  nay,  prescribes, 
and  which  has  a  beauty,  for  that  cause,  beyond  the 
pomp  of  thrones :  but  to  divide  his  hours  between 
poetry  and  rich  men's  banquets  was  an  ill-starred 
and  inauspicious  attempt.     How  could  he  be  at  ease  30 


BURNS  125 

at  such  banquets?  What  had  he  to  do  there,  min- 
gling his  music  with  the  coarse  roar  of  altogether 
eai'thlj  voices ;  brightening  the  thick  smoke  of  in- 
toxication with  fire  lent  him  from  heaven?     Was  it 

5  his  aim  to  enjoy  life  ?  Tomorrow  he  must  go  drudge 
as  an  Exciseman !  We  wonder  not  that  Burns  became 
moody,  indignant,  and  at  times  an  offender  against 
certain  rules  of  society ;  but  rather  that  he  did  not 
grow  utterly  frantic,  and  run  ainuch  against  them 

10  all.  How  could  a  man,  so  falsely  placed,  by  his 
own  or  others'  fault,  ever  know  contentment  or 
peaceable  diligence  for  an  hour?  What  he  did, 
under  such  perverse  guidance,  and  what  he  forbore 
to   do,    alike  fill    us   with    astonishment    at    the 

15  natural  strength  and  worth  of  his  character. 

Doubtless  there  was  a  remedy  for  this  perverse- 
ness ;  but  not  in  others ;  only  in  himself ;  least  of 
all  in  simple  increase  of  wealth  and  worldly 
•'respectability."     We  hope  we  have  now  heard 

20  enough  about  the  efficacy  of  wealth  for  poetry, 
and  to  make  poets  happy.  Xay,  have  we  not  seen 
another  instance  of  it  in  these  very  days?  B}Ton, 
a  man  of  an  endowment  considerably  less  ethereal 
than  that  of  Burns,  is  born  in  the  rank  not  of  a 

86  Scottish  ploughman,  but  of  an  English  peer:  tne 
highest  worldly  honours,  the  fairest  worldly  career, 
are  his  by  inheritance ;  the  richest  harvest  of  fame 
he  soon  reaps,  in  another  jorovince,  by  his  own 
hand.     And  what  does  all  this  avail  him?     Is  he 

30  happy,  is  he  good,   is  he  true  ?     Alas,  he  has  a 


126  CARLYLE'S 

poet's  soul,  and  strives  towards  the  Infinite  and  the 
Eternal;  and  soon  feels  that  all  this  is  but  mount- 
ing to  the  house-top  to  reach  the  stars !  Like 
Burns,  he  is  only  a  proud  man;  might,  like  him, 
have  "purchased  a  pocket-copy  of  Milton  to  study  5 
the  character  of  Satan;"  for  Satan  also  is  Byron's 
grand  exemplar,the  hero  of  his  poetry,  and  the  model 
apparently  of  his  conduct.  As  in  Burns's  case, 
too,  the  celestial  element  will  not  mingle  with  the 
clay  of  earth ;  both  poet  and  man  of  the  world  he  k 
must  not  be ;  vulgar  Ambition  will  not  live  kindly 
with  poetic  Adoration;  he  cannot  serve  God  and 
Mammon,  Byron,  like  Burns,  is  not  happy;  nay, 
he  is  the  most  wretched  of  all  men.  His  life  is 
falsely  arranged:  the  fire  that  is  in  him  is  not  a  1 
strong,  still,  central  fire,  warming  into  beauty  the 
products  of  a  world;  but  it  is  the  mad  fire  of  a 
volcano ;  and  now — ^we  look  sadly  into  the  ashes  of 
a  crater,  which  ere  long  will  fill  itself  with  snow ! 

Byron  and  Burns  were  sent  forth  as  missionaries  2 
to  their  generation,  to  teach  it  a  higher  Doctrine,  a 
purer  Truth;  they  had  a  message  to  deliver,  which 
left  them  no  rest  till  it  was  accomplished ;  in  dim 
throes  of  pain,  this  divine  behest  lay  smouldering 
within  them;  for  they  knew  not  what  it  meant,  2 
and  felt  it  only  in  mysterious  anticipation;  and 
they  had  to  die  without  articulately  uttering  it. 
They  are  in  the  camp  of  the  Unconverted;  yet  not 
as  high  messengers  of  rigorous  though  benignant 
truth,  but  as  soft  flattering  singers,  and  in  pleasant  a 


BURNS  127 

fellowship,  will  they  live  there:  they  are  first 
adulated,  then  persecuted;  they  accomplish  little 
for  others ;  they  find  no  i3eace  for  themselves,  but 
only  death  and  the  peace  of  the  grave.  We  con- 
5  fess,  it  is  not  without  a  certain  mournful  awe  that 
we  view  the  fate  of  these  noble  souls,  so  richly 
gifted,  yet  ruined  to  so  little  purpose  with  all  their 
gifts.  It  seems  to  us  there  is  a  stern  moral  taught 
in  this  piece  of  history, — twice  told  us  in  om-  f^wn 

10  time!  Surely  to  men  of  like  genius,  if  there  be  any 
such,  it  carries  with  it  a  lesson  of  deep,  impress- 
ive significance.  Surely  it  would  become  such  a 
man,  furnished  for  the  highest  of  all  enterprises, 
that  of  being  the  Poet  of  his  Age,  to  consider  well 

15  what  it  is  that  he  attempts,  and  in  what  spu'it  he 
attempts  it.  For  the  words  of  Milton  are  true  in 
all  times,  and  were  never  truer  than  in  this:  "He 
who  would  write  heroic  poems  must  make  his 
whole  life  a  heroic  poem."     If  he  cannot  first  so 

20  make  his  life,  then  let  him  hasten  from  this  arena; 
for  neither  its  lofty  glories,  nor  its  fearful  perils, 
are  for  him.  Let  him  dwindle  into  a  modish 
balladmonger ;  let  him  worship  and  besiug  the  idols 
of  the  time,  and  the  time  will  not  fail  to  reward 

25  him.  If,  indeed,  he  can  endure  to  live  in  that 
capacity!  Byron  and  Burns  could  not  live  as 
idol-priests,  but  the  fire  of  their  own  hearts  con- 
sumed them ;  and  better  it  was  for  them  that  they 
could  not.     For  it  is  not  in  the  favour  of  the  great 

30  or  of  the  small,  but  in  a  life  of  truth,  and  in  the 


1*^8  CARLYLE'S 

inexpugnable  citadel  of  his  own  soul,  that  a  Byron's 
or  a  Burns 's  strength  must  lie.  Let  the  great 
stand  aloof  from  him,  or  know  how  to  reverence 
him.  Beautiful  is  the  union  of  wealth  with  favour 
and  furtherance  for  literature;  like  the  costliest  6 
flower -jar  enclosing  the  loveliest  amaranth.  Yet  let 
not  the  relation  be  mistaken.  A  true  poet  is  not 
one  whom  they  can  hire  by  money  or  flattery  to  be  a 
minister  of  their  pleasures,  their  wi'iter  of  occasional 
verses,  their  purveyor  of  table-wit;  he  cannot  be  i 
their  menial,  he  cannot  even  be  their  partisan.  At 
the  peril  of  both  j)ai'ties,  let  no  such  union  be 
attempted !  "Will  a  Courser  of  the  Sun  work  softly 
in  the  harness  of  a  Dray-horse  ?  His  hoofs  are  of 
fire,  and  his  path  is  through  the  heavens,  bringing  i 
light  to  all  lands ;  will  he  lumber  on  mud  high- 
ways, dragging  ale  for  earthly  appetites  from  door 
to  door  ? 

But  we  must  stop  short  in  these  considerations, 
which  would  lead  us  to  boundless  lengths.  "We  2 
had  something  to  say  on  the  jjublic  moral  chai'acter 
of  Burns ;  but  this  also  we  must  forbear.  "We  are 
far  from  regarding  him  as  guilty  before  the  world,  as 
guiltier  than  the  average ;  nay,  from  doubting  that 
he  is  less  guilty  than  one  of  ten  thousand.  Tried  a 
at  a  tribunal  far  more  rigid  than  that  where  the 
Phhiscita  of  common  civic  reputations  are  pro- 
nounced, he  has  seemed  to  us  even  there  less 
wortliy  of  blame  than  of  pity  and  wonder.  But  the 
world  is  habitually  unjust  in  its  judgments  of  such  3 


BURNS  129 

men ;  unjust  on  many  grounds,  of  which  this  one 
may  be  stated  as  the  substance:  It  decides,  like  a 
court  of  law,  by  dead  statutes ;  and  not  positively 
but  negatively,  less  on  what  is  done  right,  than  on 
5  what  is  or  is  not  done  wrong.  Xot  the  few  inches 
of  deflection  from  the  mathematical  orbit,  which 
are  so  easily  measured,  but  the  ratio  of  these  to  the 
whole  diameter,  constitutes  the  real  al)erration. 
This  orbit  may  be  a   planet's,   its   diameter   the 

10  breadth  of  the  solar  system ;  or  it  may  be  a  city 
hippodrome;  nay,  the  circle  of  a  ginhorse,  its 
diameter  a  score  of  feet  or  paces.  But  the  inches  of 
deflection  only  are  measured :  and  it  is  assumed  that 
the   diameter   of   the   ginhorse,    and   that   of  the 

15  planet,  will  yield  the  same  ratio  when  compared 
with  them!  Here  lies  the  root  of  many  a  blind, 
cruel  condemnation  of  Burnses,  Swifts,  Rousseaus, 
which  one  never  listens  to  with  approval.  Granted 
the  ship  comes    into   harbour    with    shrouds   and 

20  tackle  damaged;  the  pilot  is  blarheworthy ;  he  has 
not  been  all-wise  and  all-powerful :  bat  to  know 
how  blamewopthy,  tell  us  first  whether  his  voyage 
has  been  round  the  Globe,  or  only  to  Ramsgate  and 
the  Isle  of  Dogs. 

25  With  our  readers  in  general,  with  men  of  right 
feeling  anywhere,  we  are  not  required  to  plead  for 
Burns.  In  pitying  admiration  he  lies  enshrined 
in  all  our  hearts,  in  a  far  nobler  mausoleum  than 
that  one  of  marble;    neither  will  his  Works,  even 

90  as  they  are,  pass  away  fi'om  the  memory  of  men. 


130  BURNS 

While  the  Shakspeares  and  ^Miltons  roll  on  like 
mighty  rivers  through  the  country  of  Thought, 
bearing  fleets  of  traffickers  and  assiduous  pearl- 
fishers  on  their  waves ;  this  little  Valclusa  Fountain 
will  also  arrest  our  eye :  for  this  also  is  of  Nature's  5 
own  and  most  cunning  workmanship,  bursts  from 
the  depths  of  the  earth,  with  a  full  gushing 
current,  into  the  light  of  day ;  and  often  will  the 
traveler  turn  aside  to  drink  of  its  clear  waters,  and 
muse  among  its  rocks  and  pines !  M 


NOTES 

Proper  names  easily  found  in  biog-raphical  dietionarjeg 
are  not  given  in  tlie  Notes  or  the  Glossary,  since  the 
nieas"er  references  possible  here  would  be  of  little  value. 
The  few  names  which  the  student  cannot  readily  find  are 
inserted  in  the  Glossai-y;  all  others  the  student  should 
look  up  for  himself.  He  will  find  sufficient  material  in  any 
encyclopajdia,  or  in  the  Cmtury  Cyclopmdia  of  Names. 


Page  43,  liine  4.  Maxim  of  supply  and  demand. 
Carlyle  and  Ruskin  are  one  in  denouncing-  Mill  and  his 
school  of  economists,  insisting  that  the  less  capable  should 
be  protected  against  the  miseries  arising  from  free  com- 
petition and  from  changes  'n  methods  of  production. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Hargreaves,  the  inventor  of  the 
spinning-jenny,  died,  like  Butler,  the  author  of  Hudihras, 
in  poverty. 

P.  43,  Li.  16.  Brave  mausoleum.  Burns  lies  at  Dumfries 
under  a  tomb  of  Grecian  design,  adorned  with  pillars  and 
surmounted  by  an  unfortunate  tin  dome.  Within  is  a 
marble  group  representing  the  genius  of  Scotland  throw- 
ing the  mantle  of  inspiration  about  the  poetic  husband- 
man as  he  stands  by  his  plough.  Carlyle  passed  by  this 
tomb  many  a  time. 

P.  46,  Li.  27.  CoHstahle^s  IfisceUany.  Archibald  Constable 
ought  to  be  remembered  bj''the  student.  He  was  the  orig- 
inal publisher  of  the  Edinburgh  Bevieiv,  the  first  and  ablest  of 
the  periodicals  which  characterize  the  earlj'  half  of  the  cen- 
tury ;  he  brought  oiit  the  notable  fifth  and  sixth  editions  of 
the  Encyclopcedia  Britatmica.  He  published  many  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  works;  also  Constable's  Miscellany,  a  series  of  stand- 
ard works  which  set  the  pace  for  future  publishers  of  popu- 
lar editions.  Constable  stood  for  large  ideas  and  strong 
131 


t' 


132  NOTES 

thouo-ht  in  his  books, and  for  liberal  compensation  to  authoi'i 
and  adequate  returns  from  large  sales,  rather  than  high 
prices.  Through  the  mismanagement  of  others  his  busi- 
ness affairs  became  entangled,  and  his  immense  estab- 
lishment fell  with  a  crash,  involving  Scott  to  the  extent  of 
£130,000.  This  greatest  of  British  publishers  died  broken- 
hearted, about  a  year  befoi'e  this  essay  appeared. 

P.  47,  Li.  21.  Our  notions  .  .  .  appear  extravagant. 
.  .  .  Our  own  contributions  .  ,  .  scanty  and  feeble.  It 
has  been  cleverly  suggested  that  these  and  similar  apolo- 
getic expressions  were  interpolated  by  "Francis  Jeffrey, 
editor  of  the  Jieview.  Apology  was  certainly  far  fi-om 
characteristic  of  Carlyle,  and  we  learn  from  his  Life  by 
Froude  that  when  the  proof  sheets  came  home  from 
Jeffrey  he  found  "the  first  part  cut  all  into  slu'eds — the 
body  of  a  quadruped  with  the  head  of  a  bird,"  and  although 
Carlyle  successfully  insisted  that  the  wording  of  the  manu- 
script should  be  restored  on  penalty  of  cancelling  the 
article,  he  evidently  alludes  to  this  and  similar  experi- 
ences, in  his  letter  to  Emerson,  when  he  speaks  of  "  edi- 
torial blotches  too,  notes  of  admiration,  dashes,  •  we 
thinks,'  etc.,  etc.,  common  in  Jeffrey's  time  in  the  Edirf 
burgh  Jieview." 

P.  49,  Li.  18.  Witfiout  model.  Carlyle  undei'cstimates  the 
sources  of  Burns's  poetic  inspiration.  Andrew  Lang,  the 
keenest  and  bcst-balan('ed  student  of  Burns  now  writing, 
says:  "He  was  the  most  imitative  of  all  men  of  poetic 
genius,"  and  again:  "In  him  Folk  Song  and  Folk 
Romance,  never  wholly  extinct,  become  consciously  artis- 
tic. He  is  not  in  poetry  an  innovator,  but  a  '  continuator.' 
He  always  has  a  model  in  the  music  and  the  lyrics  of  the 
people,  in  the  humour  and  the  measures  of  Lindsay  and 
Dunbar,  in  the  passion  of  the  ballad  singers." 

P.  50,  Li.  6.  Most  disadvantageous.  Quite  the  contrary 
— one  nr)t  born  of  the  people  could  nevflr  have  become  the 
poet  of  the  people.  On  this  point  Jeffrey  says :  "Burns 
was  placed  in  a  situation  more  favorable,  perhaps,  to  the 
development  of  great  poetical  talents  than  any  other  whicb 
could  ha\e  been  assigned  him." 


NOTES  133 

P.  50,  L/.  12.  Bhymes  of  a  Ferguson.  Speaking  again 
of  Burns's  indebtedness,  Andrew  Lang  pithily  says: 
■' Fergusson  lie  always  acknowledged  with  equal  justice 
and  generosity  as  his  Master.  Burns  is  not  one  of  the 
poets  who  fare  quo  nuUa priorum  vestigia.  He  almost  always 
climbs  by  a  trodden  way,  pursuing  the  track  of  a  prede- 
cessor. But  his  genius,  like  a  forest  fire,  oblitei-ates  the 
traces  of  other  and  earlier  footsteps,  so  that  his  country- 
men have  more  than  half  forgotten  that  true  and  rai'e 
genius,  his  predecessor,  Fergusson." 

P.  51,  Li.  8.  Exposition.  It  is  the  province  of  the 
essayist  to  advance  certain  statements  of  imj)ortance  and 
to  make  their  meaning  clear.  He  desires  to  present  his 
views  so  positively  and  forcibly  that  they  shall  become 
the  opinions  of  others.  This  is  what  Carlyle  means  by 
exposition.  While  he  by  no  means  confines  himself  strictly 
to  this  form  of  discourse,  Carlyle's  larger  thoughts,  be 
they  correct  or  otherwise,  should  be  sought  in  each  para- 
graph. The  student  may  for  instance  locate  several 
prominent  statements  in  this  paragraph ;  reflection  will 
enable  him  to  select  two  or  three  as  the  more  important; 
close  thinking  will  arrive  at  the  one  thing  Carlyle  would 
have  us  understand  forever.  Search  for  this  central  line 
of  thought;  grasp  the  central  thought  firmly,  let  all  else 
fall  away ;  then  go  forward  to  the  next  paragraph.  Do 
this  to  the  end  of  the  essay. 

P.  53,  Li.  5.  The  ^^  Daisy. ''^  The  reference  is  to  Burns's 
poem  To  a  Mountnin  Daisy,  which,  with  that  To  a  House, 
should  be  freshly  re-read  to  give  an  understanding  of 
this  paragraph. 

P.  53,  Li.  14.    JTim  that  walketh.    Ps.  civ. 

P.  53,  Li.  30.  Straw  roof.  To  an  American  in  a  Ian"? 
of  fine  timber  and  cheap  shingles,  a  straw  roof  has  u 
thought  of  shif tlessness  or  poverty ;  to  a  Scotchman  in  a 
country  of  cheap  labor  and  fine  building  stone,  a  wooden 
or  fi'ame  house  seems  an  unsubstantial  makeshift.  The 
thatches  of  Ayrshire  were  made  of  long,  straight,  clean 
Straw,  placed  by  a  skilled  workman,  as  carefully  as  a 


lU  NOTES 

tarpenter  would  lay  shing-les.  A  well-thatched  roof  was 
eonsidered  comfortable. 

P.  55,  li.  8.  il'o  Jjttei-  business.  A  gfaugership,  a  collec- 
torship  of  excise,  a  position  not  differing'  essentially'  from 
that  held  by  a  deputy  collector  of  internal  revenue  in  this 
country,  yet  involving  the  collection  of  minor  and  aggra- 
vating taxes.  If  a  housewife  rendered  out  a  cake  of  mut- 
ton tallow,  Burns  had  to  be  on  hand  to  weigh  and  tax  it. 
If  home-made  ale  were  brewed  he  had  to  be  on  hand  to 
gauge  it  and  collect  the  trifling  but  exasperating  duty. 
For  his  views  read  The  DeiVs  awa  wP  the  Exciseman. 

P.  55,  Li.  25.  The  full  collection  of  his  strength.  It  is  a 
question  whether  the  cast  of  mind  capable  of  carrying 
out  an  extended  project  such  as  Paradise  Lost  could  have 
produced  the  "  mere  occasional  effusions  "  on  which  the 
reputation  of  Burns  rests  and  which  the  world  could  ill 
spare.  Carlyle  returns  to  this  point  on  page  94,  where  he 
conjectures  the  probable  effect  of  a  university  training. 

P.  56,  li.  24.  Sincenty.  Compare  Matthew  Arnold: 
*'The  end  and  aim  of  all  literature  is  a  criticism  of  life.'- 
"  Truth  and  seriousness  of  substance  and  matter,  felicity 
and  perfection  of  diction  and  manner,  as  these  are 
exhibited  in  the  best  poets,  are  what  institute  a  criticism 
of  life  made  in  conformity  with  the  laws  of  poetic  truth 
and  poetic  beauty."  "  The  mem.ent  that  we  leave  the 
small  band  of  the  very  best  poets,  the  true  classics,  and 
deal  with  poets  of  the  next  rank,  we  shall  find  that  per- 
fect truth  and  seriousness  of  matter  in  close  alliance  with 
oerfect  truth  and  felicity  of  manner,  is  the  rule  no 
.onger." 

P.  57,  Li.  13.  ]Iorace''s  rule.  ^^  Si  vis  me  Jlere,  dolendum, 
est primurn  ipsi  ?tW."  "  If  thou  wouldst  have  me  weep,  thou 
must  first  feel  grief  thyself." 

P.  58,  Ij.  20.  Byron.  .  .  .  his  poetry  .  .  .  7wt 
true.  We  quote  again  from  Matthew  Arnold,  taking  the 
doubtful  privilege  of  drojiping  out  portions  not  needed 
here.  "There  is  the  Byron  who  posed,  there  is  tlie  Byron 
with  his  affectations  and  silliness.     But  when  this  theat- 


NOTES  13t 

ricai  and  easily  criticised  personage  betook  himself  to 
poetrj',  and  when  he  had  fairly  warmed  to  his  work,  then 
he  became  another  man;  then  the  theatrical  personage 
passed  away  :  then  a  higher  power  took  possession  of  him, 
and  filled  him." 

P.  60,  L.  6.  Pvctry  .  .  .  wJdch  he  had  time  to  medU 
fate.  Compare  this  thought  with  poured  forth  with  little  pre' 
meditation. 

P.  61,  Li.  13.  ^frs.  Dunlop.  An  estimable  lady  who 
was  so  pleased  with  the  Ootter''s  Saturday  Xi<jht  tha> 
she  sent  a  messenger  sixteen  miles  to  Mossgiel  with  a 
note  of  appreciation.  An  exchange  of  letters  and  an  hon* 
orable  friendship  followed.  It  isnot  strange  that  Burns's 
letters  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  should  have  been  free  and  in  a 
happy  vein.  This  is  the  lady  whose  housekeeper  retui'ned 
a  copy  of  the  above  mentioned  poem  with  the  remark: 
"Gentlemen  and  ladies  may  think  muckle  of  this;  but  for 
nie  it's  naething  but  what  I  saw  in  my  faither's  hoose 
every  day,  an'  I  dinna  see  hoo  he  could  hae  tell't  it  ony 
Ither  way." 

P.  61,  Li.  29.  Eoxe-cohiired  Koveh.  Carlyle  held  an 
unfavorable  opinion  of  fiction  both  in  prosfc  and  romantic 
verse.  He  was  correspondingly  out  of  sorts  with  a  liter* 
ary  age  in  which  the  novel  gained,  we  may  say,  an  ascen- 
dency. For  his  Virgins  of  the  Han  we  shall  not  go  far 
wrong  if  we  look  into  Moore's  LaUa  Bookh  (1817) ;  for 
Knights  of  the  Cross  and  malicio^is  Saracens  in  turbans  we  turn 
naturally  to  Scott's  Jvanhoe  (1819),  and  lalisman,  (1825); 
copper-coloured  chiefs  in  wampum  were  doubtless  suggested 
by  Cooper's  Leather  Stocking  Tales. 

P.  62,  Li.  so.  The  poet.  In  this  and  the  preceding 
passage  we  must  enlarge  our  ordinary  idea  of  poet,  for  in 
the  largest  sense  the  poet  is  not  necessarilj'  a  writer  or 
framer  of  verse,  nor  even  a  writer  at  all,  but  an  imagina- 
tive thinker.  Note  Carlyle's  definition  at  the  close  of  this 
paragraph.  Eead  Lowe'l's  0(?e,  which  contains  a  parallel 
thought. 

P.  63,  L.  11.     Thejifthcxtqf  a  Tragedy.    The  closing  act 


136  NOTES 

P  63,  li.  11.  Such  cobweb  ispeculations.  In  a  similar 
review  article  on  Milton,  contributed  likewise  to  tlie 
Edinburgh  Jiniew,  just  three  years  anil  tliree  months 
earlier,  Macaulay  says;    "We  think  that  as  civilization 

advances,  poetry  almost  necessarily  declines 

In  proportion  as  inen  know  more  and  think  more,  they 
4ook  less  at  individuals,  and  more  at  classes.  They,  there- 
fore, make  better  theories  and  worse  poems."  A  spirited 
discussion  arose  and  Car^yle  here  throws  in  a  few  sentences 
for  Macaulay  s  especial  comfort. 

P.  66,  1j.  1.  No  Theocriivf  Ull  Burns.  A  famous  Greek 
poet,  of  Syracuse,  3rd  century  B-  C,  who  wrote  "charming 
little  pictures  of  life."  A  worJ  from  Stedman  and  his 
translation  of  a  bit  froru  the  Ci-oek  may  serve  to  fix 
the  reference  in  mind:  "Theocritus  created  his  own 
school,  with  no  models  except  those  obtainable  from  the 
popular  mimes  and  catches  of  his  own  region;  just  as 
Burns,  availing  himself  of  the  simple  -"Scottish  ballads, 
lifted  the  poetry  of  Scotland  to  an  eminent  and  winsome 
Individuality." 

The  red  cicalas  ceaselessly  amid 

The  shady  bouglis  were  chirping ;  from  afai 
The  tree-lrog  in  the  briars  chanted  slirill; 

The  crest-larks  and  tlie  thistle-iinches  sang. 
The  turtle  dove  was  i)lainiDg;  tawny  bees 

Were  .^.Dveriug  round  the  foiuitaiu.    All  tilings  nea» 
Smelt  of  rlie  ripened  suiiiiuer,  all  tilings  smelt 

Of  fruit-tune.     Tears  were  rolling  at  our  feet. 
And  ai>i)les  for  the  taking;  to  tlie  ground 

Tlie  iiluiii-tree  staggered,  burdened  with  its  fruit; 
And  we,  iiieanwliile.  brushed  from  a  wine-jar's  laouth 

The  pitcli  four  years  unbroken. 

—Tlie  Thahjsia.    Tiieociu^jws,  VII.,  1, 2. 

Compare  Whittler's  Among  the  Hills. 

P.  67,  li.  20.  Of  tliis  Icust  excellence.  This  apt  para- 
graph with  its  three  quotations  must  have  been  an  after- 
thought, as  it  does  not  appear  in  the  original  lieview  article. 

p.  69,  li.  14.  "  Tlie  pale  Moon."  This  passage  from 
Open  Vie  Door  to  Jit,  Ohf  is  evideatly  tb«»  "vorse  for  quoting. 
The  verse  should  read . 


NOTES  137 

The  wan  moon  Is  setting  behind  the  white  wave 

And  time  is  setting  wi"  me.  oh! 
False  friends,  false  lov(>,  farewell!  for  mair 

I'll  ne'er  trouble  them,  nor  thee,  oh ! 

P.  70,  Jj.  14.  We  hear  of  a  gentleman.  Burns  wrote 
the  Flcgy  on  Captain  JIatlheiu  Henderson,  *' a  gentleman 
who  held  the  patent  for  his  Honors  immediately  from 
Almigrhty  God."  Jane  Baillie  Welsh,  writing-  to  a  friend  In 
1826  just  before  her  marriage  to  Carlyl^,  uses  thisi  state- 
ment in  alluding'  to  his  peasant  origin.  The  letter  fell  into 
Carl3-le's  hands  after  her  death  and  touched  him  deeply. 

P.  71,  Li.  5.  Poetry,  except  in  mich  cases.  Jeffrey 
evidently  thought  this  sentence  not  only  an  injustice 
to  Keats,  but  also  likely  to  reflect  upon  Carlyle.  It  first 
appeared  in  the  following  softened  form  in  T/te  Review: 
*'  Poetry,  except  in  such  cases  as  that  of  Keats,  where  the 
whole  consists  in  extreme  sensibility,  and  a  certain  vague 
pervading  tunefulness  of  nature,  is  no  separate  faculty, 
no  organ  which  can  be  superadded  to  the  rest  or  disjoined 
from  them ;  but  rather  the  result  of  their  general  har- 
mony and  completion."  Carlyle  upon  the  publication  of 
his  collected  essays  restored  the  original  sentence. 

P.  75,  L.  20.  But  has  it  not  been  said.  This  and  the 
paragraph  following  were  also  inserted  by  the  author  at  a 
later  date. 

P.  77,  Li.  1.  Since  aU  know  of  it.  Note  the  shade  of 
meaning  conveyed  by  the  word  of  which  was  also  an 
afterthought  inserted  when  the  essay  was  revised. 

P.  77,  Li.  6.  Forbore  to  speak.  The  Galloway  journey 
on  horseback  with  Mr.  Syme  is  well  attested,  but  the 
composition  of  Brucc''s  Address,  under  the  circumstances 
given,  is  discredited  on  excellent  authority. 

P.  80,  Li.  26.  TTie  JoUy  Beggars.  This  paragraph  Is 
without  meaning  unless  the  poem  itself  be  read. 

P.  82,  Li.  9.  A  small  ajxrture.  Connect  this  expres- 
sion in  thoiight  with  brief  ia  the  next  line,  not  with  the 
number  of  Burns's  songs. 


138  MOTES 

P  82,  L.  2-1:.  Wme-hred  madrigals.  Carlj'le  Is  hitting 
away  again  at  Keats,  Shelley  and  their  contemporaries. 

p.  86,  Ij.  9.  At  Geneva.  There  is  this  difference:  The 
Edinburgh  writers  were  natives  who  imported  foreign 
Uterature  and  foreign  ideas,  while  the  writers  of  Geneva 
were  foreigners  attracted  from  all  Europe  by  the  free 
atmosphex'e  of  the  Swiss  city. 

P.  88,  Ij.  10.  •'  Doctrine  of  Rent."  A  theory  put  forth 
by  Adam  Smith,  a  professor  in  the  University  of  Glas- 
gow. His  Wealth  of  Xatious  is  considered  the  foundation  of 
the  science  of  political  economy.  Smith  taught  that  true 
rent  is  the  value  of  the  product  less  the  cost  of  production. 
According  to  this  theory  if  a  cultivator  sell  his  crop  for 
one  hundred  dollars,  while  the  cost  of  raising  and  market- 
ing the  crop,  including  labor,  is  sixtj'-five  dollars,  the  rent 
Is  thirty-five  dollars,  whether  the  cultivator  pay  the  land- 
holder twenty  dollars  or  forty  dollars  or  nothing  at  all  for 
the  use  of  the  land. 

P.  88,  Ij.  1 1.  "  yatural  History  of  Religion."  A  treatise 
by  David  Hume,  the  author  of  a  history  of  England  and 
of  otlicr  noted  works.  He  held  various  official  positions, 
but  was  repeatedly  unsuccessful  as  an  applicant  for  a  pro- 
fessorship in  tJ^e  University  of  Glasgow.  His  writings 
and  friendship  powerfully  influenced  Adam  Smith. 

P.  88,  Ij.  33.  Racy  virtues  of  the  soil.  This  literature 
of  the  soil  has  a  new  growth  in  the  writings  of  Stevenson, 
Barric,J\Vatson  and  Crockett,  who  have  heeded  the  maxim 
iaid  down  by  Carlyle.    See  page  61  et  seq. 

P.  89,  Ii.  18.  "^1  wish,"  etc.  Quoted  frojii  the  EpistU 
to  the  Guidwife  of  Wauchope  House.  Lot  breast  rhyme  with 
least,  and  bear  with  dear  For  weeding  clips  Currie  says  weed- 
ing-hcuk,  a  nd  Manson  saj's  weeder-clips 

P.  89,  L.  30.  Far  more  iiiteresting.  Surely  a  bit  of  one- 
sided intensity.  Knowledge  of  the  aiithor's  life  lends 
Interest  to  his  works,  but  is  not  our  interest  in  an  author 
almost  entirely  due  to  the  celebrity  of  his  works  ?  We 
have  only  to  consider  whether  we  could  least  afford  to 
spare  Burns's  biography  or  Burns's  poems. 


NOTES  139 

p.  92,  It.  17.  This  blessing.  Singleness  of  aim  and 
contentment  in  its  attainment.  Carlyle,  least  of  all,  ever 
got  his  own  bearings. 

P.  93,  Li.  28.  The  crossing  of  a  brook.  Caesar's  cross- 
ing the  Rubicon, 

P.  94,  li.  5.  Changed  the  whole  course  of  British  Literature. 
The  following  comment  could  hardly  be  improved: 

"  I  have  not  made  much  lament  for  the  poverty  of  Burns. 
He  had,  probably,  about  as  much  schooling  as  Shake- 
speare; he  had  the  best  education  for  his  genius.  Better 
Scots  poetry  he  could  not  have  written  had  he  been  an 
Ireland  scholar;  and  his  business  was  to  write  Scots 
poetry.  The  people  of  whom  he  came  he  could  not  have 
represented  as  he  did,  if  a  long  classical  education  and 
and  many  academic  years  had  come  be*;ween  him  and  the 
clay  bigging"  of  his  birth.  He  could  not  have  bettered 
Tarn  O'Shanter,  or  Hallow E'' en,  or  The  Jolly  Beggars,  if  he  had 
been  steeped  in  Longinus  and  Quintilian,  Dr.  Blair  his 
rhetoric,  and  the  writings  of  Boileau.  A  man's  work, 
after  all,  is  what  he  could  do  and  had  to  do.  One  fails  to 
see  how.  any  change  of  worldly  circumstance  could  have 
bettered  the  true  woi'k  of  Burns." — Andrew  Lang. 

P.  94,  Li.  9.  Cheap  school-system.  For  an  idea  of  the 
interest  the  Scottish  school-master  takes  in  his  bright  boys, 
read  an  account  of  "  Dorasie"  in  The  Bonnie  Briar  Bush. 
The  difficulty  in  Burns's  case  was  not  the  payment  of  a 
trifling  tuition,  but  the  need  of  his  aid  in  the  field.  He 
was  a  large,  active  boy  and  became  the  mainstay  of  the 
family  when  others  of  his  age  were  supposed  to  be  In 
school. 

P.  95,  Li.  13.  Bums  was  happy.  Carlyle  has  else- 
where made  much  of  the  drudgery  of  Burns's  boyhood, 
but  this  sentence  is  more  rational.  It  does  not  appear 
although  Burns  thought  he  worked  too  hard,  that  hi» 
labor  was  any  more  severe  than  that  of  many  an  ordinarj 
American  boy. 

P.  98,  Li.  17.  Farewell  to  IScotland.  The  quotation  ii 
the  concluding    portion  of   Burns's    .Farewell    Hong  to  th 


140  NOTES 

Banks  of  Ayr.  The  last  line  should  read:  "Farewell  the 
bonnie  banks  of  Ayr."  "  I  composed  this  song","  writes 
the  poet,  "  as  I  conveyed  ray  chest  so  far  on  my  road  to 
Greenock,  where  I  was  to  embark  in  a  few  days  for 
Jamaica.  I  meant  it  as  my  farewell  dirge  to  my  native 
land." 

P.  106,  Li.  23.  He  owed  no  man.  Not  strictly  true,  as 
on  more  than  one  occasion  the  poet  applied  to  friends  for 
a  loan:  yet,  in  the  main,  the  statement  is  just,  for  Burns 
dreaded  a  debt  and  at  his  death  left  few  accounts  unsettled. 

P.  Ill,  L<.  2.  Lady  Baillie's  ballad.  These  Scottish  bal- 
lads are  ruined  unless  the  rhyme  of  the  Scots  is  pre- 
served. For  instance  br(m  rhymes  with  7i£w,  as  if  spelled 
broo  ;  beeti  rhymes  with,  greeti,  and  die  rhymes  with  lea,  as  if 
spelled  dee. 

P  113,  li.  27.  Clearest  and  Jirmeat.  On  the  contrary, 
if  Burns  had  possessed  a  character  of  even  ordinary  firm- 
ness he  would  have  been  more  nearly  able  to  live  up  to  his 
ideals.  Burns  knew  right  from  wrong  as  well  as  need  be, 
br*  for  want  of  decision,  oscillated  between  hilarity  and 
remorse,  between  disgraceful  sinning  and  abject  repent- 
ance. 

P.  115,  L.  6.  Patronage.  Until  the  Queen  Anne  period, 
the  only  way  a  man  of  letters  could  hope  for  a  reasonable 
financial  return  for  his  labor,  was  to  obtain  patronage,  that 
is  to  say,  a  gift  or  a  pension  from  those  of  wealth  or 
authority.  The  poet  laureateship  of  England  is  a  ti'ace  of 
patronage.  Johnson's  famous  letter  to  Lord  Chesterfield 
(1755),  if  it  did  not  "ring  the  death  knell,"  announced  the 
serious  illness  and  approaching  end  of  literary  alms- 
giving. We  quote  one  passage,  relating,  as  does  indeed 
the  entire  letter,  to  his  Dictionary  : 

"Seven  years,  my  Lord,  have  now  past,  since  I  waited 
in  your  outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door; 
during  which  time  I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work 
through  difficulties,  of  which  it  is  useless  to  complain,  and 
have  brought  it,  at  last,  to  the  verge  of  publication,  with- 
out one  act  of  assistance,  one  word  of  encouragement,  or 
one  smile  of  favour      Such  treatment  I  did  not  expect,  for 


NOTES  141 

I  never  had  a  patron  before.  Is  not  a  Patron,  my  Lord, 
one  wlio  looks  with  unconcern  on  a  man  struggling  for 
life  in  the  water,  and,  when  he  has  reached  ground, 
encumbers  hira  with  help?  The  notice  which  you  have 
been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labours  had  it  been  early,  had 
been  kind;  but  it  has  been  delayed  until  I  am  indifferent, 
and  cannot  enjoy  it;  till  I  am  solitary,  and  cannot  imparl 
it;  till  I  am  known,  and  do  not  want  it.  I  hope  it  is  no 
very  cynical  asperity  not  to  confess  obligations  where  no 
benefit  has  been  received,  or  to  be  unwilling  that  the  pub- 
lic should  consider  me  as  owing  that  to  a  Patron,  which 
Providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for  myself." 

P.  116,  Li.   13.     The  2^oor  i)romoti(m.     A  supervisorship 
•  of  customs,  3,  membership  in  the  Board  of  Excise  Commis- 
sioners. 

P.  123,  L/.  4.  He  has  no  Religion.  The  author  of  the 
Cotter^s  Saturday  Xight  had  an  essentially  reverential  nature. 
A  master  of  ridicule,  Burns  nowhere  ridicules  the  good;  a 
thorn  of  perfect  point  in  the  side  of  the  self-righteous,  he 
is  excelled  by  no  poet  in  his  admiration  of  honest  piety. 
One  cannot  imagine  that  Burns  ever  laughed  at  a  play- 
mate for  saying  his  prayers,  or  that  he  could  hear  blas- 
phemy without  shrinking.  None  would  have  resented 
more  quickly  than  Carlyle,  an  intimation  that  Burns  wa? 
an  iri'eligious  man,  but  he  is  right  in  that  the  poet  lacked 
that  fervid  zeal,  call  it  perhaps,  partisanship,  or  better 
high  resolve,  that  sends  a  man  out  determined  that  the 
right  shall  win.  Burns's  sympathies  were  on  the  side  of 
right,  but  there  is  an  unmistakable  void  in  that  he  assumes 
no  responsibility  whatever,  and  he  is  to  this  extent  irre 
sponsible,  without  religion,  though  not  irreverent  » 

"His  ci'eed  was  not  orthodox,  indeed,  but  it  was  sincere; 
he  never  lost  sight  and  touch  of  the  spiritual." — Lang. 

"It  must  be  admitted  that  in  protesting  against  hypoc- 
risy he  has  occasionally  been  led  beyond  the  limits  pre- 
scribed by  good  taste.  This,  with  other  offences  against 
decorum,  which  here  and  there  disfigure  his  pages,  can 
only  be  condoned  by  an  appeal  to  the  general  tone  of  his 
writing,  which  is  reverential." — Nichol. 


142  NOTES 

P.  120,  Li.  19.  Fill  itself  wlOi  siiow.  Byron  had  now  oeen 
dead  but  four  years.  What  does  the  essayist  mean  by 
snowf 

P.  127,  Li.  27.  Idol-priests.  Note  the  force;  priests  unto 
idols,  i.e.  ministers  to  false  standards.  Cavljde  is  fond  of 
newly-compounded  words,  a  trick  he  may  have  from  the 
Germans 


GLOSSARY 

AND  INDEX  TO  INTRODUCTION 


A*.     AIL 

A'-day.     AH  day. 
Ae.    One. 
Aibllus.    Perhaps. 

AlTKEN,  MaROARET.      p.  11. 

Aniang,     Among. 

An'.    And. 

Alice.     Once 

Ane.     One 

Aknaxdale.    p.  13. 

Abaucana.  a  heroic  poem  In 
thirty-seven  cantos,  by  tlie  Span- 
ish poet  Alonzode  Ercill  a  It  cele- 
brates the  conquest  of  Arauco,  a 
province  of  Chile,  in  which  the 
author  was  one  of  the  combatants 
P.  121,1.24. 

Armour,  Jean.    P.  23. 

Auld.     Old. 

Auld  Brig.  Bead  Tlie  Biign  of  Ayr, 
In  part  a  spirited  dialogue  between 
the  old  bridge  and  the  new  bridge 
in  process  of  erection.  In  the  pas- 
sage quoted,  the  sprite  of  the  Auld 
Brig  is  speaking  and  prophesies 
the  fall  of  the  New  Brig— not  the 
A*ildBrigas  Ciirlyle  has  it.  The 
New  Brig  became  unsafe  and  vvaa 
taken  down  in  1877. 

Auld  Xk-klc  ben.  Old  Nick  Ben 
denotes  familiarity. 

Ayr.    p.  23. 

Bear.    Barley. 

Beastie.     Diminutive  of  beast. 

Beggar's  Opera  and  Beggar's 
Bush  The  former  by  John  Gay, 
the  latter  by  Fletcher     Both  are 


popular  London  plays  represent 
Ing  the  kind  of  life  described  In 
the  Jolly  Beggars.    P.  82, 1. 1 . 

Bide.    To  endure. 

Bing.    Heap 

Blacklock,  Doctor.  See  sketch 
ot  Burns's  life  (p.  27).  Dr  Black- 
lock  was  a  blind  poet  who  de 
pended  on  employing  a  university 
student  to  read  to  him.  He  was 
one  of  the  first  in  Edinburgh  to 
realize  the  value  of  Burns's  Kil- 
marnock volume.    P.  104, 1.  24. 

Bock'd.     Disgorged 

Bonnie.     Beautiful. 

BosTf.N,  John.  Carlyle  evidently 
refers  here  to  Thomas  Boston,  8 
noted  Scottish  Presbyterian  dl 
vine  He  was  the  author  of  a  large 
number  of  theological  works 
which  were  extensively  read 
P.  86,  1  13. 

Brats.     Rags. 

Brattle.    Onset. 

Brig.     Bridge. 

Burin.    An  engraver's  tool  of  ^eu 
pered  steel.    P.  67, 1.  19. 

Burns.    Brooks,  streams 

Burns,  Robert. 
Birth  of     P  23 
Early  education     P.  24. 
Composes  his  first  song.    P   *< 
Works  as  flaxdresser     P.  25 
Publishes  his  first  volume     f   IP 
Visits  Edinburgh     P  27 
Marries  Ji  an  Armout.    P  '& 
Appointed  exciseman     f  '* 


143 


144 


GLOSSARY 


Removes  to  Dumfries.    P.  28. 
Dies.    P.  28. 

Buru-tlie-wiiicl.  For  Eurnewln, 
the  blacksmith. 

Butler.  See  p.  131,  note  to  d.  43, 
1.4. 

Cacus.  a  giant  son  of  Vulcan,  liv- 
ing among  the  hills  on  which 
Bonje  was  bjilt  He  stole  cattle 
from  Hercules,  and  dragged  them 
backward  by  their  tails  Into  his 
cave,  so  that  their  footsteps  might 
not  show  the  direction  in  which 
thej'  had  traveled  Hercules,  how- 
ever, traced  tlvera  by  their  lowing, 
and  slew  G'acus.  The  reference  is, 
of  course,  to  Macpherson,  also  a 
stealer  of  cat  tie.    P.  77, 1.  20. 

Calrd,     Tinker. 

Caledonian  Hunt.  An  aristocratic 
association  of  the  nobility  and 
gentry  In  and  about  Edinburgti, 
whose  influence  in  social  matters 
was  decisive.    P.  45, 1. 1. 

Callets.    Wenches. 

Cai-lin.     Old  wife 

Cablylk,  Ale.xandeb.    p.  21. 

Carlvle,  James.    P.  11. 

Carlylk,  Thomas. 
Birth  of.   P.  H. 
Early  education.    P.  13, 
Enters  University  of  Edinburgh. 

P.  13 
Becomes  divinity  student.    P.  M. 
Mathematical  instructor  In  An- 
nan .School.     P  14. 
Master    of    Kirkcaldy    cliissical 

school     P.  14 
Begins  the  study  of  law.     P  15. 
Writes    for    Hiewstcr'a    Eacyclo- 

p<i'(lia     P.  16. 
Enters  upon  his  literary  career. 

P.  IC. 
Visits  London.    P.  17 
Meets  Miss  Welsh     P.  la 
Marries     P.  19 
Moves  to  London.    P  22 


Elected  Lord  Keciorof  Edinburgh 

University.    P.  22. 
Dies.    P.  22. 

Character    of,    contrasted     with 
Burns.  P.  29. 

Cauld.    Cold. 

Cliittering.    Shivering 

CoMHK,  John  a.  A  wealthy,  but 
unpopular  neighbor  Of  Shak- 
spere.  The  latter  Is  said  to  have 
written  a  satirical  epitaph  upon 
him,    P.  44, 1.  20. 

Comely  Bank.    P.  19. 

Con.stable'3  Miscellany.  8e« 
p.  131,  note  to  p.  4i;,  1. 27. 

Craigenputtock.    p.  21. 

Cranrcwli.    Hoar-frost. 

Crockford's.  "A  famous  gaming 
club-house  at  No.  50,  on  the  west 
side  of  St  James  street,  London. 
It  was  built  by  William  Crock- 
ford,  ori.giually  a  fishmonger,  In 
Vi11."'—TheCeatwy  Cyclupadia  oj 
Names.    I'.  65,  1.  4. 

"Daisy."  See  p.  133,  note  to  p.  53, 1.8^ 

Dell.     Devil. 

Dinna.     Do  not. 

"  Doctrine  op  Rent."  See  p.  138, 
note  to  p.  88, 1. 10. 

Douce.    Sober,  respectable. 

Doure.    .Stubborn. 

Dowic.    Disheartened. 

Dribble.     Drizzle. 

DUMFRIKS.     P   28. 

DuNLOP,  MR.S.  See  p.  13.^,  notfl  to 
p.  61,  1.  13. 

Ecclkfechan.    p.  11. 

Edinburgh  Review.    P.  20. 

Ee.     Eye. 

Ellisl,vnd.    p.  23. 

E.xci.sB  CoMMi.ssioNERS.     A  boaro 
or  bureau  charged  with  the  collec- 
tion of  internal   revenue.     P.  44| 
1  30 
See  p.  134,  note  to  p.  S6,  L  ft. 

Falther.     Father. 

FelL    Keen,  bltlug 


GLOSSARY 


145 


Ferguson.    See  p.  133,  note  to  p  SO, 

1.12. 
Fii'.    Full. 
Gate,     AVay. 

GiAoiTRs  (Jowrs  *     A   term   often 
used    by   Byron.      The    Turkish 
epithet  for  Christians,  meaning 
intidels.    P.  58,  i  28. 
Gics,     Gives. 

Gix-HORSE.      A  horse    that    goes 
round    and    round     in   a    circle 
turning  some  iviiid  of  a  mill  or  me- 
chanical contrivance.    P  129,1.11. 
Glowr.     Gleam. 

Grays  and  Glovers.— The  refer- 
ence is  to  Thomas  Gray,  the  well- 
known  poet.and  to  Eichard  Glover, 
an  unimportant  contemporary  of 
Gray.  This  association  of  names 
betokens  a  decided  underestimate 
of  the  Elegy  Written  in  a  Country 
Churchyard,  P.  85, 1.  25. 
Greenock.  P.  27. 
Guld-man  (or  gude)     The  man  of 

the  hoase. 
Guid-woman,    The  woman  of  the 

house. 
(iumlle.    Muddy. 
llae.     Have. 
Haddington.    P.  18. 
Happing.     Hopping. 
Hing.     Hang. 
HoDDAM  Hill.    P.  W. 
Hoo.    How. 
IIoosE.    House. 
Idol-priests.    See  p.  142,  note  to  p. 

127, 1.  27. 
Ilk.    Each. 
Influence  ofCablylbonOtheb 

Writers.    P  37. 
Irvine.    P.  25. 
Irving,  Edward.    P  14 
Isle  op  Dogs    A  peninsula  formed 
byasudden  btnd  of  the  Thames 
opposite   Greenwich,   readied   by 
boat  from    London  Bridge   In  a 
tew  minutes     P.  129,  1. 24. 


Ither.    Other 

Jaups.    Splashes 

Jean  Paul  The  literary  pseudo- 
nym of  Johann  Paul  Friedriclj 
Kicnter,  a  German  writer  (1763- 
1825 1,  whose  published  works  reach 
ei.^ty  rolumes.  Carlyle  wrote  a 
review  of  Richter,  to  whom  he 
thought  he  owed  much.  P.  124,1. 15. 

Jeffrey,  Francis.    P.  20. 

Ken.     Know. 

Kilmarnock     P.  27. 

Kirkcaldy  (Ker-caw'-dy).  P.  14. 

KiRKOSWALD.     P.  24. 
La  Fleche.    a  French  city  on  a^ 
aflfluent  of  the  lower  Loire  where 
Hume  resided  for  four  years  and 
wrote  some  of  his  earlier  works. 
P.  87,  1. 13. 
Lairing.    Miring. 
Liangsyne.    Long  since, 
liift.    Sky,  heavens. 
Linking.     Tripping  along. 
Lochlea     p.  24 

Lowe,  Sir  Hudson.    The   British 
commander  of  St.  Helena,  wliere 
Napoleon  ended  his  days  a  pris- 
oner.   P.  51,1.24. 
Lucy,  Sir  Thomas,    A  gentleman 
In  the  neighborhood  of  Stratford 
who  Is  said  to  have  had  the  young 
Shakspere  and  his  boon  compan- 
ions up  before  him  for  poaching 
In   his  deer  park.     Does   Carlyle 
consider  that  a  life  of  Shakspere, 
by  his  early  neighbors,  would  be 
valuable?    P.44,  1.  19 
Macpherson     Macpherson  w-as  a 
noted  .Scottish  freebooter,  hanged 
in  1700.     P.  77, 1. 17. 
Maecenases      An  awkward  word 
derived   from    Mfecenas,  tlie  lit- 
erary patron  of  Virgil  and  Horace. 
The  reference  is  to  the  Dumfriss 
aristocracy.    P.  103, 1  2. 
Mainiiill     p.  14 
Mair.     More. 


146 


GLOSSARY 


Mauchlin-k.    p.  SS. 

Mauiia.     Must  not. 

Maut.    Malt. 

Men'.    Mena. 

MiXERVA  Press.  A  London  print- 
ing house,  prolific  of  trashy  novels 
P  64, 1. 1. 

MossQiEL.    P.  25. 

Mt.  Oliphant.    p.  24 

Muckle.    Much. 

Nac.     No. 

Ifacthing.     Nothing. 

"Natural  History  of  Eeliqion." 
See  p.  138,  note  to  p.  83,  111. 

New  and  Old  Light.  Tenna  ap- 
plied to  the  radical  and  conserva- 
tive factions  of  tne  Church  of 
Scotland.    P.  45, 1.  4. 

Novum  Orpanum.  The  chief  philo- 
sophical work  of  Francis  Bacon, 
by  many  coasidered  tlie  founder 
of  modern  science.    P.  7i,  1.  ZZ. 

O'.    Of. 

Ony.    Any. 

Ourie,    Sliiverlng 

Ower.    Over. 

Patronaqh;.  See  p  140,  note  to  p. 
115,1  6. 

Pi-EnisciTA  (plural  of  Plebisci- 
TUM)  Originally  laws  enacted 
in  ancient  Kouie  by  the  lower  rank 
of  citizens.  Now  chiefly  used  bj' 
the  French  to  designate  a  popular 
vote  The  decision  of  the  common 
people     P  128, 1.  27. 

PoiTssrN  A  noted  French  painter 
of  historical  and  landscape  pic- 
tures ••  Tlie  Deluge,"  painted  for 
Cardinal  Elchelieu,  hangs  In  the 
Louvre  with  many  of  his  best 
works,  "  admired  rather  as  a 
duty  than  enjoyed  by  the  spec- 
tator." Carlyle  visited  Paris  in 
1824,  hence,  no  doubt,  the  allusion. 
p.  68, 1.  31. 

JlAMSKV,  ALLAN.  A  Scottish  poet 
'  168ii-1758)     He  wrote  of  real  shep- 


tierds  on  Scottish  hills,  and  may 
be  regarded  as  the  founder  of 
that  natural,  unaiTected  school  of 
Scottish  poets  which  reached 
Its  culmination  la  Burns.  -P.  5ft, 
1.12 

Eam.soate.  a  watering-place  oa 
the  Isle  of  Thanet,  sixty  five  miles 
from  London.    P.  129, 1.  23. 

Rantingly.    Full  of  life. 

Eaiicle.     Bough. 

Ked-wat-shod.     Wading  in  blood. 

Bestaurateur.  The  keepor  of  an 
inn,  or  restaurant.  Carlyle  de- 
fends Burns  against  the  charge,, 
tlien  current,  that  he  was  a  mere 
bar-room  or  public  house  versifier, 
providing  entertainment  for  the 
Louse.    P.  120, 1.11. 

Eetzscii.  a  German  artist  famous 
for  his  etchings  illustrative  of 
Goethe  and  Schiller's  works,  in 
which  Carlyle  was  deeply  read. 
P.  67,1. 19. 

Rotton'key.  Given  in  critical  edi. 
tions  of  Burns's  poems  as  Ration- 
key,  which  means  the  landing  or 
quay  of  rats,  i.e.,  Infested  by  rats. 
P.  68,  1.  27. 

Rowes,     Rolls, 

Sac.     So. 

Saloons.  In  the  European,  and 
particularly  the  French,  use  of 
the  word,  it  means  reception  rooma 
or  parlors.    P.  04, 1.  26. 

Sang.     Song. 

Scaur.     Clifir. 

SCOTSBRIO.      P.  18. 

Si  VIS  ME  FLERE.      SCO  p.  134,  UOtC  tO 

p.  57,  1.  13. 
Slop,  Dr.    The  quotation  Is  from 

Sterne's  Tristiim  Shandi/,  In  which 

Dr  Slop  is  a  character.    V.  75, 1. 15. 
Snaw.    Snow. 
Snaw-broo    (snow-brew).      ''Vater 

and  slush. 
Suawy.    Snowy 


GLOSSARY 


U7 


Speat..    Toiient. 

Sprattle.    Scramble 

Spring.     A  lively  dance. 

Straw  roof     See  p  133,  note  to  p. 

W,  1  30 
Stylb,  Carlylk'.s     See  p  31 
Suld.     Should 
Si'PPLY     AND     Demand,     Maxim 

OF    See  p  131,  note  to  p  43, 1  4 
Tak.    Take 
Tain.     Thomas 
Tarbolton     p.  24. 
Tell't  (telled).    Told. 
Teniers      a    Flemish  painter    of 

peasant  and  village  scenes     P  81, 

1.  25. 
Theocritus     See  p.  136,  note  to  p 

66,  I.  1. 
Theory   of     Litkrati'rk,     Car 

LYLE'S       P    37 

Thole.     Endure 

Thowes.     Thaws 

TlECK  —  Musaus.  Two  German 
poets  who  drew  their  material 
from  the  folk-lore  of  theirnative 
hind.  Tieck  entered  the  more 
fully  Into  the  spirit  of  times  past 


Carlj'le  had  translated  from  both 
and  held  the  first  In  high  esteem. 
p.  79, 1.  30. 

IJpo".     Upon 

Vai-clusa  Fodntaix.  The  foun- 
tain of  Vaucluse,  ten  miles  east  of 
Avignon.  A  mountain  stream 
issues  from  this  fountain,  made 
famous  by  the  poet  Petrarch,  vvho 
lived  here  and  sung  Its  praises. 
P  130,1.4 

ViROiLii'M  viDi  tantum.  (Ovid). 
"I  had  a  glimpse  at  least  of 
Virgil."    p.  100,  1.  25. 

Vocabdlary,  Carlyle's     P  32 

Wad.     Would. 

Wae  (woe)      Sorry. 

Wee.     Tiny,  little. 

Weel.     Well. 

Welsh,  Jane  Baillik.    P.  J8. 

Weriia.     Were  not. 

Wha.     Who 

Wl'.     With. 

Wreeths.     Wreatl-.s 

Writers  Attorneys,  not  iitefluj 
men     P  45, 1  3. 

You.     Yonder 


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